UNIV.  OP  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELA 


JOHN  BURTON'S 
STAGE  YARNS 


=     BY 


ANNIE     B.     COOPER 


< 


BROADWAY  PUBLISHING  CO. 
835  BROADWAY,  MANHATTAN 


Copyrighted,  1906. 

BV 
ANNIE    B.    COOPER. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

My   Knickerbocker    Time    1 

A    Swap    in    Trousers 6 

The   First  Session   of  the  Carpet-bag  Legislature..  9 

That   Cured   Him    12 

An    Unequal    Division    13 

Had   Seen   Him   Before    14 

Two  Christmas  Days   15 

Murphy    and    Booth     17 

A  Joint  Story  of  Murphy  and   M.iguire 19 

Murphy's    Slip     20 

Murphy's   Irish    Friends    21 

Pete  Myers  and   the  Cane    2^ 

"Go  on  with  Your  Monkey  Doodh's" 24 

Why   Aunty   was    Sorry 25 

Uncle's  Opinion  of  My   Acting    25 

Troubles  of  a  Fond  Father 27 

Trying    Times    28 

"Pop"   Shiels    29 

"Ought  to  have  had   Them  on  in  the  First   Place".  35 

Wanted  to  be  Sure  of  His  Work 35 

McDonough's    Indians    30 

A   Unique   Strike    37 

Frank  Mayo   38 

That  Saved  Him   42 

Forrest's    "Little    Man"    415 

What    Puzzled    Him     43 

John   Maguire's   Dog    44 

"Oh,  the  Wild  Charge  They  Made" 45 

"That's   the   Opera   House   Burning   Down" 40 

A  Full   Board  but  no  House    47 

Knew  More  Than  He  Could  Sav 48 

"Witness"    .  50 


2130329 


iv  Contents. 

PAGE 

The  Banker's   Daughter    54 

I  Registered  for  Myself  After  That 55 

"You  are  Hereby  Notified  to  Work  the  Streets"..  56 

The  Pride  of  the  Town   57 

Should  Have  Had  a  Better  House 58 

A  Beggar  by  Accident 59 

Attending  one  of  Mr.  Cleveland's  Receptions 59 

A    Quick    Bargain    61 

"Dahlborn's   Dairy"   62 

He  Earned,  but  never  Wore  the  Wreath  of  Fame  63 

How  the   Landlord  Got  Even 64 

Left  Behind    65 

A  "Damon  and  Pythias"  Performance  that's  Never 

Been    Equalled     66 

Was  Willing  to  Help  Him  Make  a  Hit 68 

The  Donkey,  also  Received  a  Press  Notice 69 

"Boots"    70 

"P.    D.    Q."    72 

Florence's   Quick   Wit    73 

My  Valentine   73 

Couldn't   Fool    Him    74 

"Tricks  in  All  Trades" 75 

What  God   said   to  Her    76 

A  Young   Critic    77 

Getting  Acquainted    77 

"Uncle"   Dick   Sutton    78 

A   Queer    Conceit    84 

Charley  Forbes  and  His  "Hnnds" 84 

One  Way  of  Keeping  a  Secret 80 

A  Give- Away    86 

Wash's  Way  of  Putting  Up  Posters 87 

"You  Don't  Know  what  you  are  Talking  About"..  88 

How  Jack  Worked  Up  My  Applause 8!) 

Bill  Emmet's  Announcement    90 

"Say,  Bill,  you  Rap  for  me,  I  Haven't  any  Cane". .  90 

Shirley  and   the   Bridge    92 

A    Stolen    Theatre    . 95 

Audiences   are   Easily   Deceived    90 

How  the  King  Euchred  the  Joker 98 

The   Power   of   Mind   over   Matter 99 

A  Choice  Notice  ..  .100 


Contents.  v 

PAGE 

As  a  Singer  I  am  not  a  Success 101 

Too    Conscientious    102 

A   Queer   Make-up    103 

An  Accommodating  "Supe"    103 

Stage    Aspirants    10. ~> 

An    Innocent    Manager    110 

Why  Uneeda  Biscuits  are  High  in  Bismarck Ill 

Not  Looking  for  Coffins    112 

"Who    is   He?"    112 

Why  New  York  Didn't  Strike  Him 114 

Found   Out    114 

Buffalo    Bill's    Indians    115 

Doctor   Charlie's   Method    117 

Not  Like   the  Indians   He   Knew 118 

A  Native  Son   118 

The  Art  of  Memorizing    11!) 

Too   Anxious    122 

"I   Can   Say  it   Now,   Sir" 12:5 

Seeking   Engagements    125 

What  a  Difference !    ' 127 

A  Consideration   for   Booth  and   Barrett 129 

One   on   the   Barber    130 

"No   Shave  To-day"    131 

How  a  Small  Boy  Fooled  His  Father  and  Tried  to 

Work    Us    133 

Wanted — Information     134 

The    Absent-Minded    Englishman 135 

A  Lively   Reminder    135 

Why  They  Didn't  Laugh 137 

Didn't  Care  for  His  Monologue   138 

Who  Killed  the   Baron    139 

A  Quick  Answer    139 

A   School   for   Diction    140 

Playing    the    Races    141 

Not  Much   Comedy  in  It 142 

Are  We  so  Soon  Forgotten  When  We  are  Gone?..    143 

A  Visit  to  Honolulu    144 

Professor   Berger   and   the   Cues 140 

A    Modest    Request    147 

Mosquito    Proof     148 

An   Accidental   Hit   .  .    149 


vi  Contents. 

PAGE 

Refused  to  Make  the  Trip   150 

Social    Functions   in   Honolulu    150 

John  Burton  Entertains  in  Honolulu    151 

Bob    Scott     153 

The  First  Fourth  of  July  in  Honolulu 154 

Our  Homeward  Voyage   155 

Where  the  Trouble  Lay    158 

Mammy's    Dilemma    159 

The   Gallery   Boy    160 


INTRODUCTION. 

WHILE  residing  in  Los  Angeles,  California, 
it  has  been  my  pleasant  task  to  prepare  for  the 
public  this  series  of  stories,  which  1  have  tried 
to  give  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  words  of  the 
narrator.  I  deeply  regret  that  it  is  utterly  be- 
yond my  power  to  reproduce  them  exactly  as 
I  heard  them,  for  I  cannot  put  on  paper  the  unc- 
tion with  which  they  were  delivered  to  me;  the 
necessary  accompaniment  of  unsurpassed  facial 
expression  and  the  contagious  good-natured  smile 
of  this  clever  comedian  are  missing. 

The  greater  part  of  these  stories  have  never 
before  been  in  print,  and  have  come  directly  un- 
der Mr.  Burton's  personal  observation.  He 
wishes,  however,  to  give  due  credit  and  thanks 
for  the  few  which  have  been  told  him  by  others, 
and  which  we  have  added  to  make  the  volume 
more  complete.  These  stories  are  not  confined 
to  actors  of  note  alone ;  many  of  them,  in  fact, 
the  best  of  them,  are  told  of  people  who  have 
achieved  small  fame  in  the  theatrical  line ;  it  is 
their  mistakes  and  peculiarities  that  have  called 
this  book  into  existence. 

You  will  find  these  "Yarns  of  Actors  Past 
and  Present"  to  be  in  keeping  with  the  quaint, 
delightful — because  unconscious — humor  of  the 
man  who  tells  them.  ANNIE  B.  COOPER. 


JOHN    BURTON'S    STAGE    YARNS. 


MY  KNICKERBOCKER  TIME. 

I  was  born  many  years  ago,  in  a  little  city  in 
Wisconsin.  My  father  was  in  his  day  a  noted 
criminal  lawyer. 

The  educational  facilities  in  the  West  not  be- 
ing what  they  are  to-day,  I  was  sent  at  a  very 
early  age  to  an  aunt  in  New  York  City,  to  at- 
tend school.  It  was  during  the  winter  of  1864 
that  I  first  remember  ever  going  to  a  theatre, 
and,  as  my  relatives  were  great  theatre-goers, 
I  witnessed  during  that  year  a  series  of  per- 
formances such  as  one  rarely  sees  in  a  lifetime, 
and  the  effect  upon  me  no  doubt  had  a  great  deal 
to  do  with  my  becoming  an  actor.  I  saw  Les- 
ter Wallack,  Charles  Fisher,  George  Holland, 
Mary  Gannon,  dear  old  Mrs.  Vernon,  Mrs. 
Hoey,  and  other  artists ;  witnessed  the  first  per- 
formance of  "Rosedale"  at  Wallack's  Theatre, 
the  first  production  in  this  country  of  "The  Tick- 
et-of-Leave  Man,"  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Florence, 
the  farewell  performance  of  Henry  Placide  in 
"Grandfather  Whitehead,"  the  farewell  perform- 
ance in  this  country  of  Charles  Kean  and  Ellen 
Tree;  the  great  light  comedian,  J.  K.  Morti- 


2         John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

mer,  in  "The  Streets  of  New  York,"  and  George 
L.  Fox,  at  Niblo's  Garden. 

Speaking  of  Fox,  who  was  the  greatest 
pantomimist  of  those  days,  I  vividly  remem- 
ber going  with  my  uncle  to  see  one  of  his 
performances.  I  was  very  much  interested.  In 
the  last  scene  when  the  clown  was  hiding  under 
the  table  and  a  number  of  people  were  trying  to 
find  him,  all  armed  with  sticks,  searching  every 
place  except,  of  course,  where  he  really  was, 
and  were  about  to  give  up  without  finding  him, 
I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  cried  out  in  a 
loud,  piping  voice : 

"There  he  is  under  the  table !"  The  house 
broke  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  and  I  think  I  can 
put  that  down  as  my  first  "hit/'  As  I  was  be- 
ing led  out  of  the  theatre  by  my  uncle  I  made 
the  remark  to  him  that  I  would  be  "one  of  them 
some  day."  This  premature  outburst  of  youth- 
ful ambition  cut  short  my  visit  in  the  big  city. 
Although  I  was  considered  a  good  pupil  at 
school,  my  aunt  and  uncle  became  thoroughly 
convinced  that  I  had  "theatre  on  the  brain,"  so 
at  the  end  of  the  first  year  they  sent  me  back 
to  my  little  Wisconsin  home,  where  there  were 
no  theatres  to  encourage  me  in  my  foolish  de- 
sire. Of  course,  this  nearly  broke  my  heart. 

Nothing  happened  for  the  next  few  years,  ex- 
cept that  my  ambition  for  the  stage  came  very 
nearly  being  demolished  by  the  advent  of  a  re- 
vivalist into  our  midst.  He  held  his  meetings 
in  a  large  tent,  and  among  the  many  converts 
he  made  was  myself.  I  got  religion,  and  I  got 
it  good  and  hard — so  much  so  that  I  feared  ever) 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.          3 

move  I  made  would  be  wrong.  The  neighbors 
rushed  in  to  tell  my  mother  of  the  beautiful 
speech  I  had  made.  Mother,  although  a  reli- 
gious woman,  did  not  have  orthodox  ideas  and 
did  not  believe  in  these  revival  meetings,  but  she 
did  not  discourage  me,  doubtlessly  thinking  this 
sudden  attack  would  do  me  no  serious  harm. 
Everything  was  going  well  until  Van  Amburg'sj 
Circus  came  to  town.  One  Sunday  morning, 
as  I  was  accompanying  my  father  and  mother 
to  church,  my  father  suddenly  perceived  that  I 
was  walking  sidewise,  with  my  head  twisted 
around  until  he  thought  my  neck  would  surely 
break. 

"My  son,"  he  inquired,  "why  are  you  walking 
in  that  strange  manner?" 

I  pointed  over  my  shoulder,  without  looking 
in  that  direction,  to  a  large  bill-board  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street. 

"The  circus  bills,  father,  I  mustn't  look  at 
them !"  and  I  didn't ;  but  when  the  circus  itself 
appeared  on  the  scene,  the  elephants  and  the  mu- 
sic so  far  eclipsed  the  preacher  and  the  tent,  that 
I  found  myself  with  the  other  bad  boys  of  the 
town  following  the  band  wagon.  I  had  fallen 
from  grace !  My  father  told  this  story  with 
great  gusto  until  his  dying  day. 

I  was  at  this  time  attending  a  church  school, 
and  was  progressing  very  rapidly  in  my  studies. 
My  father,  as  was  natural,  intended  that  I  should 
follow  his  profession ;  in  fact,  at  the  age  of  six- 
teen, I  had  read  considerable  law  in  his  office ; 
but  about  that  time  the  fatal  event  occurred 
which  decided  my  future  career. 


4         John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

A  theatrical  company  arrived  in  Janesville, 
with  Helen  Western  and  the  late  James  A.  Herne 
as  the  stars,  Mr.  Herne  also  being  the  manager. 
I  attended  the  performances  very  regularly,  and 
one  night,  when  one  of  the  men  was  sick  and 
could  not  play,  the  proprietor  of  the  theatre  hap- 
penning  to  remember  that  I  was  somewhat  of 
an  amateur,  told  the  manager  that  he  might  be 
able  to  secure  my  services,  which  he  did.  He 
rehearsed  me  in  a  small  comedy  part  in  a  farce 
called  "A  Day  in  Paris."  Of  course,  I  was  very 
much  frightened,  but  managed  to  play  the  part 
to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  Miss  Western,  Mr. 
Herne,  and  also  the  audience.  Mr.  Herne  en- 
gaged me  to  go  with  the  company,  so  there  I 
was — a  full-fledged  actor !  I  dared  not  say  any- 
thing to  my  father  about  this  event;  he  had 
heard  that  I  played  that  evening,  and  was  go- 
ing to  do  all  sorts  of  things  which  he  did  not 
do,  because  I  had  left  town  before  he  could  put 
his  threat  into  execution.  I  had  been  with  the 
company  about  a  week  or  ten  days,  and  we  were 
playing  at  a  town  only  a  few  miles  from  my 
home,  when,  sitting  in  front  of  the  hotel,  I  was 
very  much  surprised  by  seeing  a  carriage  drive 
up  and  my  father  jump  out.  He  exclaimed  like 
the  proverbial  villain  in  the  play,  "Ah,  I  have 
found  you  at  last !  Get  into  this  vehicle  and  come 
home  with  me  at  once." 

I  explained  that  I  owed  a  board  bill  in  the 
hotel  and  could  not  leave  just  then.  He  gave 
me  some  money  and  said  : 

"You  pay  your  board  bill  and  get  into  this 
carriage!"  I  did  not  have  time  to  tell  Mr. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.          5 

Herne  that  I  was  going,  but  I  left  a  short  note 
describing  the  situation  and  told  him  I  would 
be  back  the  next  day.  Of  course,  I  did  not  pay 
the  hotel  bill  with  the  money  father  had  so 
kindly  given  me.  We  drove  fourteen  miles,  dur- 
ing which  time  I  was  told  about  the  corruptions 
of  the  stage  and  was  warned  of  what  I  would 
come  to,  if  I  continued  to  pursue  the  mode  of 
life  I  had  started.  I  did  not  say  a  word  dur- 
ing the  whole  trip,  but  I  kept  my  hand  tight 
on  the  money  in  my  pocket  and  very  meekly 
went  home,  where  I  received  another  lecture. 
This  one  was  punctuated  with  an  overflow  of 
tears  from  my  dear  old  mother.  But  nothing 
could  stop  me,  and  the  next  day  I  relieved  my- 
self of  the  board  money  by  exchanging  it  for  a 
return  ticket  to  the  company.  I  think  my  poor 
father,  as  he  did  not  own  a  horse  and  buggy, 
must  have  been  one  of  the  best  patrons  of  that 
livery  stable,  for  he  made  at  least  a  dozen  trips 
after  me,  until  finally  he  gave  up  in  despair  and 
said,  if  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  devil  he  couldn't 
help  it. 

After  a  few  weeks  the  company  disbanded  and 
I  returned  home,  very  penitent  and  very  glad  of 
a  parental  roof.  But  the  next  year,  having  an- 
swered an  advertisement  in  the  New  York  Clip- 
per, I  went  South  to  join  a  company  managed 
by  the  late  G.  V.  Gilbert.  Of  course,  I  was  so 
far  away  this  time  that  my  father  could  not  hire 
a  horse  and  buggy  and  come  after  me,  so  I  felt 
perfectly  safe. 

Gilbert  was  a  typical  Southern  gentleman.  He 
had  a  beautiful  residence  at  a  place  called  Beer- 


6          John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

sheba  Springs,  away  up  on  top  of  the  Cumber- 
land Mountains.  His  wife  and  the  entire  fam- 
ily were  acting  with  him.  They  had  an  old  band- 
master named  Professor  Milne,  who  had  been 
band-leader  in  the  Confederate  Army.  Milne 
spent  his  time  instructing  all  the  people  in  the 
company  to  blow  horns,  and  by  the  time  we  left 
the  springs  to  go  on  the  road  we  were  all  ac- 
complished ( ?)  musicians.  Every  evening  be- 
fore the  performance  the  band  used  to  play  in 
front  of  the  door  or  in  the  balcony  of 
the  theatre.  The  leading  woman  would  have 
to  play  an  E  Flat  cornet  for  half  an  hour,  and 
then  go  on  the  stage  and  die  of  consumption — 
as  "Camille"! 


A  SWAP  IN  TROUSERS. 

At  Selma,  Alabama,  I  was  cast  to  play  an  old 
negro,  and  was  looking  around  for  some  pecul- 
iar clothes  to  dress  the  part. 

Standing  out  in  front  of  the  hotel  one  day, 
I  noticed  a  negro  driving  up  with  a  mule  and  a 
cart.  I  wish  I  could  describe  that  wonderful 
turnout.  The  cart  had  reached  the  culminat- 
ing point  of  dilapidation,  and  the  mule  was  a 
perfect  picture  of  extreme  melancholy.  The 
owner  of  this  outlandish  rig  had  unconsciously 
gotten  himself  up  for  a  Mardi  Gras.  He  had 
on  a  pair  of  trousers  which  would  have  answered 
for  either  a  Joseph's  coat  or  a  crazy  quilt.  I  got 
my  eye  on  those  trousers  and  determined  that 
I  would  have  them  at  any  cost.  Trembling  with 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.          7 

excitement  for  fear  some  one  would  get  ahead 
of  me,  I  called  the  hotel  porter : 

"Ben,  do  you  think  you  could  get  me  those 
trousers  off  that  negro?  I'll  give  him  another 
pair — a  good  pair  for  them." 

"Wall,  I  guess  I  ken,  sah,"  answered  the  won- 
dering porter,  as  he  started  toward  the  old  darky. 
After  a  short  parley  between  Ben  and  the  owner 
of  the  melancholy  mule,  the  latter  eagerly  ac- 
cepted my  liberal  proposition  and  immediately 
accompanied  Ben  to  his  little  cabin,  where  he 
could  make  the  proper  transfer.  Then  Ben  ap- 
proaching me  said : 

''I've  got  him,  boss,  come  on  wid  yore  pants !" 

I  had  a  pair  of  blue  trousers  with  a  little  gold 
thread  running  down  them,  cut  as  they  wore 
them  in  those  days — very  tight.  I  ran  up  to  my 
room,  seized  these  trousers,  and  followed  Ben 
to  his  cabin.  The  hotel  porter  explained  to  the 
owner  of  the  melancholy  mule  that  I  wished  to 
exchange  for  his  old  ones,  this  beautiful  pair 
of  trousers — here  Ben  held  them  up  for  the  other 
to  admire.  They  were  seized  in  mid-air,  and 
Ben's  speech  cut  short.  In  less  time  than  it  takes 
to  tell  it,  the  old  negro  had  on  the  striped  trou- 
sers which  fit  him  skin  tight,  causing  me  to  won- 
der if  the  hull  were  not  likely  to  burst  and  spill 
its  contents.  I  grabbed  the  discarded  trousers, 
tucked  them  under  my  arm,  and  hurried  to  my 
room.  While  standing  at  the  window  gloating 
over  my  coveted  prize  I  heard  a  great  hurrah- 
ing below.  Looking  out,  I  saw  my  blue  trou- 
sers— with  the  stuffing  still  in — appearing  on  the 
street.  Everybody  that  saw  the  new  owner  com- 


8          John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

menced  to  laugh,  and  as  he  approached  the  cart 
I  am  confident  even  the  melancholy  mule  smiled. 
Off  he  drove  down  the  street.  The  last  thing 
the  porter  said  to  him  was  : 

"See  yere,  you  nigger,  when  you  gits  home 
you  go  in  at  the  back  dore,  don't  let  yore  ole 
woman  see  you  wid  dem  pants  on !" 

About  three  o'clock  the  following  day  as  I  was 
"rounding  out"  my  afternoon  with  a  comforta- 
ble nap,  I  was  rudely  awakened  by  hearing  loud 
noises  right  under  my  window.  It  sounded  as 
if  a  lot  of  insane  people  were  holding  a  spirited 
debate.  I  got  up,  looked  out,  and  there  beheld 
a  great  crowd  of  negroes  all  carrying  miscella- 
neous bundles  of  coats  and  trousers.  They  were 
standing  in  expectant  groups  around  the  hotel. 
I  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it,  so  I  went 
downstairs  to  find  out.  Every  one  in  the  office 
was  laughing,  and  the  landlord,  loudest  of  all ; 
upon  seeing  me  he  took  a  new  start.  He  finally 
managed,  between  gasps,  to  ask: 

"What  do  you  suppose  all  those  crazy  negroes 
want  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  replied. 

"Why,  they  are  looking  for  that  man  who  is 
giving  away  new  pants  for  old  ones!" — here  the 
landlord  collapsed  hopelessly. 

My  friend  with  the  melancholy  mule  had  given 
them  all  the  tip,  but  I  didn't  mind  that,  for  I 
made  good  in  the  part,  and  I  am  sure  those  trou- 
sers were  responsible  for  my  success. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 


THE  FIRST  SESSION  OF  THE  CARPET-BAG  LEGIS- 
LATURE. 

In  1872  I  was  in  Jackson,  Mississippi,  during 
a  session  of  the  first  carpet-bag  legislature,  which 
was  composed  almost  entirely  of  negroes,  most 
of  whom  could  neither  read  nor  write ;  the  few 
white  men  who  were  connected  with  the  body 
seemed  to  be  there  to  get  what  fun  they  could 
out  of  it.  I  went  into  the  gallery,  where  I  had 
a  fine  view  of  the  whole  performance.  I  have 
never  beheld  a  minstrel  show  that  equalled  the 
one  I  saw  that  day.  There  was  a  fat  darky, 
with  a  long-tailed  coat,  a  rusty  silk  hat,  a  carpet- 
bag, and  an  umbrella,  who,  every  time  there  was 
a  lull  in  the  proceedings,  arose  to  his  feet  and 
said  : 

"Mr.  Speaker," — before  he  could  get  any  fur- 
ther one  of  the  white  members  on  the  Democratic 
side,  who  was  there,  as  I  said  before,  to  have 
some  fun,  would  head  him  off  with  the  announce- 
ment that  "the  gentleman  from  Washington 
County  was  out  of  order."  The  speaker  would 
then  rap  with  his  gavel,  and  inform  the  gen- 
tleman from  Washington  County  that  he  was  out 
of  order,  and  the  gentleman  from  Washington 
County  would  immediately  collapse.  This  oc- 
curred possibly  a  dozen  times  during  the  session, 
and  each  time  it  was  received  with  an  outburst 
of  laughter,  which  did  not  seem  to  affect  "the 
gentleman  from  Washington  County"  in  the 
least,  as  he  looked  all  the  more  serious.  But 
finally  overcome  with  these  exertions,  he  fell 


io        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

asleep  on  his  desk,  umbrella,  carpet-bag,  and 
silk  hat  by  his  side. 

When  the  session  was  over  and  the  speaker 
had  adjourned  the  house,  one  of  the  members 
noticed  that  "the  gentleman  from  Washington 
County"  was  sound  asleep.  He  reminded  the 
speaker  that  before  they  adjourned,  this  impor- 
tant member  of  the  convention  should  be  heard. 
After  considerable  effort  on  the  part  of  several 
members  he  was  awakened,  and  the  speaker  in- 
formed him  that  he  now  had  the  floor.  One  of 
the  white  members  whispered  to  him  that  his 
time  had  come  to  be  heard.  Rising  to  his  feet, 
with  the  umbrella  in  one  hand  and  the  carpet- 
bag in  the  other,  he  said : 

"Mr.  Speaker,  I  done  bem  -yere  so  long  dat 
I  almos'  forgit  what  I  has  to  say,  but,  Sir,  what 
I  wants  to  know  is  dis,  I'se  been  in  dis  yere  town 
three  days,  and  I'd  like  to  know  who's  gwine  to 
pay  my  board!" 


"Foxv"  JOE. 

We  had  in  our  company  an  old  fellow  by  the 
name  of  Joe  Fox,  a  German  by  birth,  who  spoke 
his  native  tongue  much  more  fluently  than  he  did 
the  English  language.  He  was  a  sly  old  "fox," 
very  fond  of  practical  jokes,  provided  they  did 
not  cost  him  anything.  Seeing  that  I  was  a 
youngster  and  not  much  used  to  the  ways  of  the 
world,  he  chose  me  as  his  mark,  and  succeeded 
in  getting  me  into  all  kinds  of  scrapes.  This 
one,  in  particular,  was  rather  amusing.  It  was 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        n 

in  Nashville,  Tennessee,  and,  as  was  his  time- 
honored  custom  in  every  town  we  visited,  he  be- 
came acquainted  with  the  proprietor  of  a  beer 
hall.  One  day  !:e  invited  me  to  join  him  in  a 
glass  of  beer.  We  went  into  a  place,  and  he  in- 
troduced me  to  the  proprietor,  who  smilingly 
set  out  three  glasses,  one  for  himself,  one  for 
Joe,  and  one  for  me.  Joe  made  a  few  offhand 
remarks  in  German,  not  one  word  of  which  I 
understood.  The  proprietor  produced  three 
more  glasses  of  beer,  Joe  kept  talking  German, 
and  the  proprietor  kept  producing  beer  and  look- 
ing admiringly  at  me.  I  was  never  before  treated 
with  such  marked  deference;  I  couldn't  under- 
stand it.  So  after  we  had  indulged  in  a  large 
sufficiency  of  beer  and  managed  to  get  out  into 
the  street  again,  I  asked  Joe  what  he  had  been 
saying  to  the  landlord : 

"Oh,  I  was  telling  him  vat  a  fine  actor  you 
vas ;  he  has  been  to  see  you  and  has  taken  quite 
a  shine  to  you !" 

"Nobody  paid  for  those  beers,  Joe." 

"Oh,  he  vouldn't  take  a  cent,  he  vouldn't  take 
a  cent!"  Joe  replied  airily. 

This  continued  during  the  entire  week ;  we 
kept  on  drinking  the  landlord's  beer,  and  Joe 
kept  on  talking  German,  but  somehow  there  was 
never  any  money  in  sight.  I  wandered  in  there 
one  day  alone,  and  told  the  landlord  that  as  I 
was  going  away,  I  thought  I  would  come  in 
and  bid  him  good-bye  and  thank  him  for  his 
kindness.  He  said : 

"Oh,  that's  all  right;"  then  went  behind  his 
desk  took  out  a  paper,  and  presented  me  with 


12        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

a  bill  for  all  we  had  been  drinking  during  the 
week.  I  remonstrated  with  him  and  tried  to  ex- 
plain that  I  was  not  responsible  for  the  bill. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are;  yes,  you  are,  Mr.  Fox  he 
says  so."  So  it  finally  dawned  upon  me  that 
Joe  had  been  talking  German  to  him  all  the  week, 
so  I  asked  him  what  the  old  fellow  had  been  tell- 
ing him. 

"Why,  he  said  you  are  the  manager  and  are 
good  for  everything."  Joe  had  intended  the 
joke  to  be  on  me,  but  I  have  very  good  reasons 
to  believe  it  turned  out  to  be  entirely  on  the  ac- 
commodating saloonkeeper,  for  I  am  blushing 
yet  to  remember  that  I  forgot  to  pay  the  bill. 


THAT  CURED  HIM. 

Among  the  members  of  our  band  was  a  young 
man  named  Holmes.  He  played  a  slide  trom- 
bone, and  his  principal  delight  was  to  torment 
that  instrument  all  the  time — day  and  night — 
to  the  great  annoyance  of  everybody.  He  used 
to  get  at  it  in  the  smoking-car ;  his  strong  forte 
was  religious  tunes  and  long-drawn-out  dirges. 
He  became  such  a  nuisance  that  on  one  occasion 
the  boys  grabbed  him  and  put  him  out  on  the 
platform,  trombone  and  all.  He  waited  until 
the  train  stopped,  and  then  climbed  into  the  bag- 
gage-car and  made  himself  acquainted  with  the 
baggage-man.  The  latter  not  having  a  sensi- 
tive nervous  system  raised  no  objections  when 
the  young  fellow  seated  himself  on  a  long  box 
and  began  to  play.  He  had  been  at  it  for  about 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        13 

an  hour  when  he  returned  to  the  smoker,  look- 
ing very  pale;  he  put  his  instrument  away  in  its 
case,  and  sat  moodily  gazing  out  of  the  win- 
dow, without  saying  anything  to  any  one.  But 
the  baggage-man  gave  the  secret  away.  The 
long  box  on  which  the  youthful  virtuoso  had 
been  sitting  in  the  baggage-car  was  a  coffin  con- 
taining a  corpse  being  shipped  East.  He  had 
been  sitting  on  it  playing  that  trombone  a  whole 
hour  before  he  found  out  what  he  had  been  hold- 
ing down,  and  when  he  did,  he  fainted,  with  the 
last  note  of  the  "Sweet  Bye  and  Bye"  still  quiver- 
ing through  the  car. 

It  cured  him  of  annoying  people  with  his  trom- 
bone. After  that  he  played  only  when  duty 
called. 

AN  UNEQUAL  DIVISION. 

We  were  billed  to  open  a  new  hall  in 
a  little  town  in  Mississippi.  (They  were  halls 
in  those  days,  there  were  no  theatres.)  This 
was  a  Masonic  Hall,  and  actually  contained  a 
good  seating  capacity  and  a  stage,  which  was 
a  very  rare  thing.  As  soon  as  we  arrived  in 
town  we  went  up  to  look  the  building  over,  and 
found  to  our  astonishment  that  the  walls  had 
not  been  plastered,  but  were  merely  lathed,  and 
were  decorated  profusely  with  the  Masonic  em- 
blems. Our  manager  looked  quizzically  at  the 
bare  walls  and  then  at  the  committee  that  had 
escorted  him  up: 

"How's  this,"  he  said,  "so  many  masons  and 
no  plasterers?" 


14        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 
HAD  SEEN  HIM  BEFORE. 

We  were  the  first  company  that  ever  played 
in  Birmingham,  Alabama;  iron  ore  had  then  just 
been  discovered.  O'Brien,  who  afterward  built 
the  Opera  House  and  became  immensely  rich, 
had  a  little  hall,  and  he  himself  painted  the  drop 
curtain  for  the  stage,  the  day  we  arrived.  I  re- 
member we  did  a  splendid  business  there,  but 
it  was  the  roughest  audience  I  ever  played  to 
in  my  life. 

We  had  a  treasurer,  the  old  man  had  picked 
up  somewhere,  who  had  formerly  been  a  sewing 
machine  agent.  He  was  a  good,  honest  soul, 
but  did  not  know  much  about  the  business.  The 
first  night  he  was  in  the  box-office  the  boys  put 
up  a  job  on  him;  they  told  him  that  after  he  was 
through  there,  he  should  go  out  in  front  and 
work  up  the  applause;  so  out  he  went  and  took 
a  seat.  The  seats  which  were  intended  for  the 
gallery  were  like  the  circus  seats,  built  from  the 
bottom  to  the  top  of  the  building,  and  were  oc- 
cupied by  the  most  unrefined  element ;  at  the  fool 
of  this  bunch  the  treasurer  planted  himself,  and 
whenever  there  was  a  point  made — and  fre- 
quently when  there  was  not — he  applauded  in 
a  most  generous  manner,  very  often,  alone.  After 
he  had  done  this  once  or  twice  he  attracted  the 
attention  of  a  highly-disagreeable  old  fellow  on 
the  top  row ;  every  time  the  treasurer  applauded 
this  man  would  scowl  at  him  in  the  fiercest  way. 
Our  friend  noticed  these  unpleasant  looks  and 
began  to  get  nervous,  but  being  a  conscientious 
man,  he  attended  religiously  to  his  duty,  and 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        15 

gave  another  vigorous  applause.  The  old  fel- 
low on  the  top  row  could  stand  it  no  longer;  in 
a  very  loud  voice  he  yelled  to  his  companion,  at 
the  same  time  pointing  to  our  friend,  the  treas- 
urer : 

"Well,  blow  my  eyes,  may  I  never  get  out  of 
this  place  alive  if  that  ain't  the  old  mug  who  sold 
the  tickets !" 

It  took  the  treasurer  about  two  seconds  to  get 
out,  and  nothing  could  ever  induce  him  to  go 
in  front  of  the  house  again. 


Two  CHRISTMAS  DAYS. 

While  we  were  playing  at  Shreveport,  Louisi- 
ana, in  the  fall  of  '73,  the  yellow  fever  broke  out 
in  its  worst  form,  and  several  members  of  our 
company  fell  its  victims.  Olders'  Circus  was 
there  at  that  time,  and  the  ravages  of  the  disease 
became  so  furious  that  nearly  one-half  of  that 
large  organization  were  stricken  down.  We 
could  not  begin  to  have  funerals,  the  town  was 
quarantined  and  there  were  no  means  of  getting 
coffins,  so  we  wrapped  our  dead  in  sheets  and 
carried  them  out  in  drays  and  express  wagons. 

Finally  I  fell  sick  and  was  taken  to  the  little 
stone  church,  which  was  used  as  a  hospital.  On 
the  cot  next  to  me  was  a  bright  young  fellow, 
a  schoolmate  of  mine,  who  was  treasurer  of  the 
Circus  company. 

Dividing  her  time  between  his  cot  and  mint- 
was  little  Miss  Ross,  one  of  the  prettiest,  best, 
and  most  cheerful  nurses  in  the  hospital.  She 


1 6        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

would  flit  from  one  to  the  other  as  quickly  as  a 
sunbeam,  her  touch  had  the  gentleness  of  an  an- 
gel's. During  my  friend's  delirium  she  bent 
over  and  watched  his  every  movement  with  a 
mother's  solicitude.  But  the  poor  boy  died ;  I 
was  unconscious  at  the  time — barely  lived 
through  it  myself. 

On  Christmas  morning  my  fever  broke.  1 
was  pronounced  by  my  faithful  little  nurse  to 
be  out  of  danger.  "You  are  going  to  get  well !" 
was  her  Christmas  greeting. 

On  Christmas  day,  ten  years  later,  I  visited 
this  same  little  town.  As  I  passed  down  the 
street  to  where  the  old  stone  church  still  stood, 
thoughts  of  the  fair-haired  little  girl  who  had 
nursed  me  back  to  life  came  to  my  mind.  As  I 
drew  near  to  the  church  I  noticed  a  crowd  pass- 
ing out  of  the  door.  I  asked  of  a  bystander, 
what  was  going  on. 

"Why,  it's  Miss  Ross's  wedding;  she  and  our 
pastor  have  just  married." 

"What,  the  nurse !"  I  unconsciously  exclaimed. 

He  smiled  sympathetically :  "So  you  loved 
her,  too?" 

I  turned  away  with  a  peculiar  feeling  of  lone- 
liness, and  as  I  took  a  parting  look  at  the  mem- 
ory-haunted chapel  I  breathed  a  silent  prayer 
that  God's  richest  blessings  rest  upon  that  brave 
little  woman  who  had  nursed  the  wandering 
Thespian  back  to  life,  and  that  her  Christmas 
might  be  as  happy  as  mine  had  been  ten  years 
before. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        17 
MURPHY  AND  BOOTH. 

My  associations  with  the  old  California  favor- 
ite, Joseph  Murphy,  are  among  the  most  pleas- 
ant of  my  career. 

Murphy  was  indeed  a  remarkable  man  and 
self-made  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  Coming 
to  California  in  the  early  days  a  poor  boy,  he 
landed  at  San  Francisco  without  friends  or 
money  and  worked  at  anything  at  which  he 
could  earn  an  honest  dollar.  From  a  fisherman 
on  the  Sacramento  river,  he  grew  to  be  one  of 
the  minstrel  kings  of  the  day.  As  a  boy  he  was 
possessed  of  a  remarkably  fine  voice  and  was 
bright  and  full  of  ambition.  During  his  idle 
hours  he  learned  to  play  the  bones  in  a  most 
skilful  manner,  and  became,  without  any  seem- 
ingly great  effort,  a  very  clever  dancer.  About 
thirty  years  ago  he  saw  a  great  chance  in  the 
dramatic  world  for  an  Irish  comedian,  and  I 
need  not  tell  of  his  great  success  in  that  work, 
for  from  the  poor  fisher-boy  he  has  grown  to 
be  the  richest  actor  in  America. 

Murphy  has  always  been  misunderstood  by 
those  who  do  not  know  him  intimately.  He  is 
a  quiet,  unassuming  man  who  gives  his  charity 
without  advertising  it.  To  illustrate  the  charac- 
ter of  the  man  I  will  relate  one  incident  of  his 
life. 

One  day  while  he  was  a  fisherman  at  Sacra- 
mento, the  humble  place  at  which  he  boarded 
caught  fire  and  burned  to  the  ground;  every- 
thing he  had  in  the  world  was  lost  in  the  fire. 
He  was  slowly  walking  along  the  banks  of  the 


1 8        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

river  wondering  where  he  was  going  to  sleep 
or  get  something  to  eat,  when  he  came  upon  a 
man  lying  on  the  river  bank,  whom  the  waters 
from  the  incoming  tide  were  slowly  drowning. 
Quick  as  a  flash  the  Irish  boy  forgot  his  troubles. 

"Hello  there,  what's  the  matter?" 

No  answer. 

Bending  down  he  saw  that  the  man  was  un- 
conscious. Without  delay  he  picked  him  up 
and  carried  him  on  his  back  to  the  city  tavern, 
where  he  found  congregated  a  lot  of  men,  as 
is  usual  in  such  places.  As  Murphy  deposited 
his  living  load  upon  the  floor,  the  men  around 
the  fire  sprang  up  to  see  who  it  was,  and  one 
of  them  exclaimed: 

"Why,  it's  Ned  Booth !" 

It  was  Edwin  Booth,  who  afterward  became 
the  greatest  tragedian  of  his  day.  The  men 
questioned  young  Murphy,  and  he  explained  how 
he  had  found  him. 

"Where  do  you  live  and  what  do  you  do  for 
a  living?"  asked  one  of  the  men. 

"I  am  a  fisher-boy,  sir,"  he  answered,  "and  at 
present  am  living  outdoors ;  my  boarding-house 
burned  down  this  morning." 

His  simple,  honest  way  so  completely  won  the 
hearts  of  those  rough  men  that  they  took  up  a 
collection  for  him  and  promised  to  get  him  work 
the  next  day. 

It  was  never  positively  known  how  Booth  hap- 
pened to  be  there,  but  in  after-years,  when  he 
and  Murphy  became  close  friends,  and  they  used 
to  talk  over  the  old  days  in  California,  Murphy 
always  omitted  this  little  event,  and  Booth  re- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.         19 

mained  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  the  Irishman 
had  saved  him  from  a  watery  grave. 

A  few  years  ago  while  sitting  in  the  Baldwin 
Hotel  of  San  Francisco  with  a  party  of  gentle- 
men including  Mr.  Murphy,  one  of  the  party  was 
telling  this  story  when  a  man  walked  into  the 
room ;  Murphy  looked  up  and  said : 

"Why,  boys,  there's  the  very  man  who  was 
landlord  of  that  tavern,"  and  calling  him  over 
he  asked,  "Mack,  how  much  money  was  in  that 
collection  you  took  up  for  me?" 

"About  thirty  dollars,  I  think,  Joe,"  replied 
Mack,  and  Murphy  turning  around  said  to  the 
party : 

"God  bless  those  men,  it  was  my  good  luck, 
I  have  never  wanted  for  a  dollar  since." 


A  JOINT  STORY  OF  MURPHY  AND  MAGUIRE. 

John  Maguire  had  an  opera  house  at  Missoula, 
Montana,  a  very  primitive  affair,  the  only  en- 
trance both  to  the  stage  and  the  auditorium  be- 
ing a  rickety  stairway  on  the  outside  of  the  build- 
ing. It  was  in  the  winter  of  '97  that  Mr.  Mur- 
phy was  booked  for  one  night.  On  arriving  in 
town  he  and  I  proceeded  to  the  opera  house  to 
try  to  find  Maguire.  We  met  him  in  front  of 
the  theatre  just  as  we  were  scrutinizing  the  stair- 
way and  wondering  how  we  were  going  to  get 
a  horse  into  the  theatre  that  night.  The  horse 
was  a  very  necessary  actor  in  "Kerry  Gow,"  the 
piece  we  were  playing,  as  Mr.  Murphy  had  to 
shoe  him  in  a  blacksmith  scene,  and  he  is  after- 


20        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

ward  ridden  on  at  the  end  of  the  race,  by  the 
winning  jockey.  Mr.  Murphy,  in  his  anxiety, 
asked  Maguire : 

"John,  how  are  we  going  to  get  a  horse  up 
those  stairs?" 

"Oh,"  said  John,  "that  will  be  easy  enough, 
I  have  the  horse  all  right,  there  he  is  now," 
pointing  to  a  woebegone-looking  bronco  which 
was  tied  to  a  post  in  front  of  the  theatre.  The 
temperature  was  20  degrees  below  zero  and  it 
was  snowing  very  hard;  there  was  no  telling 
how  long  the  poor  animal  had  been  tied  to  the 
post,  for  before  we  met  Maguire,  Mr.  Murphy 
and  I  had  been  commenting  upon  the  cruelty 
of  leaving  a  horse  exposed  to  such  terrible 
weather.  So  when  John  told  us  that  was  the 
horse,  Murphy  said : 

"Why,  John,  you  can  never  get  that  poor  beast 
up  the  stairs  without  breaking  his  legs  or  his 
neck." 

"Oh,  that  don't  make  any  difference,"  replied 
John,  "he's  only  worth  three  dollars!" 


MURPHY'S  SLIP. 

We  had  been  rehearsing  for  some  time  "The 
Donough"  for  its  first  performance  at  Hooley's 
Theatre,  Chicago.  As  Mr.  Murphy  did  not 
have  a  very  good  study,  and  was,  of  course, 
nervous  at  the  first  performance,  he  naturally 
rattled  those  around  him,  particularly  his 
brother,  John.  Now,  John  was  playing  a  part 
called  Mike  Coogan,  and  at  the  end  of  one  of 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        21 

the  acts  Mr.  Murphy  had  to  chase  him  around 
the  stage  and  finally  corner  him,  and  throwing 
him  to  his  knees  say : 

"I  have  you  now,  Mike  Coogan !" 

But  having  forgotten  the  name  of  Coogan,  and 
not  being  able  to  catch  the  word  from  the 
prompter,  he  exclaimed : 

"Ah,  ha,  I  have  you  now,  John  Murphy!" 

Of  course  this  brought  consternation  to  John 
and  knocked  all  the  lines  out  of  his  head.  There 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  end  the  scene,  and  the 
curtain  descended  amidst  roars  of  laughter  from 
the  audience  and  all  the  actors. 


MURPHY'S  IRISH  FRIENDS. 

Murphy  had  a  great  hold  upon  the  theatre- 
going  public.  Not  only  did  he  draw  the  regu- 
lar theatre-goers,  but  people  came  to  see  Mur- 
phy who  never  came  to  see  any  one  else.  A 
common  occurrence  in  a  first-class  theatre  where 
the  seats  were  two  dollars  and  two  and  a  half 
was  to  see  an  old  Irishman  and  his  wife  going 
down  the  aisle  to  the  very  front  seats — but  they 
had  come  to  see  Murphy  and  did  not  care  what 
it  cost  them. 


Once  in  Lawrence,  Massachusetts,  an  Irishman 
accompanied  by  his  family  approached  the  door- 
tender,  and  holding  his  tickets  in  a  vise-like  grip, 
as  the  door-tender  reached  out  to  take  them,  said 
in  the  richest  of  brogues: 


22        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

"Hould  on,  sur,  hould  on,  I  want  to  be  shtire 
I'm  raight;  tell  me,"  and  he  held  out  the  tickets 
so  the  young  man  could  look  at  them,  "are  these 
tickets  for  the  basement  flure?" 


I  heard  two  Irish  boys  one  Sunday  in  Chi- 
cago discussing  whether  or  not  they  should  go 
to  the  theatre,  when  one  of  them  said : 

"Jimmie,  don't  you  know  it's  Lent?  and  me 
mither  says  T  can't  go  to  the  theatre  in  Lent." 

"Oh,"  said  the  other  little  fellow,  "I  know  it's 
Lent,  and  me  mither  told  me  I  couldn't  go  to  the 
theatre  in  Lent  either,  but  she  said  it  was  all 
right  to  go  and  see  Murphy!" 


PETE  MYERS  AND  THE  CANE. 

During  my  absence  from  my  native  town  a 
real  Opera  House  had  been  built — Myers'  Opera 
House.  Every  actor  who  has  ever  played  Wis- 
consin will  remember  Pete  Myers,  the  leading 
figure  of  the  town.  He  was  a  funny  old  Ger- 
man whom  I  remembered  from  the  time  I  was 
a  little  boy  as  always  wearing  the  same  suit  of 
clothes ;  they  say  he  actually  wore  one  hat  over 
twenty  years.  Once  when  a  friend  said  to  him : 

"Pete,  why  don't  you  buy  a  new  hat?"  He 
replied : 

"What's  the  use,  everybody  knows  me  here?" 

He  never  went  out  of  town  but  once,  and  that 
was  on  an  excursion  to  Milwaukee.  This  same 
friend  then  said  to  him : 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        23 

"Now,  Pete,  you'll  have  to  buy  a  new  hat, 
you  are  going  to  Milwaukee;  you  wouldn't  be 
seen  there  with  that  old  hat  on,  would  you?" 

But  Pete  had  his  answer  ready: 

"What's  the  use,  nobody  knows  me  there?" 

One  of  Pete's  favorite  remarks  was  that  he 
had  put  up  more  bricks  than  anybody  else  in 
the  town. 

Well,  the  Opera  House  was  a  pretty  nice  one 
for  those  days.  Over  the  proscenium  march  the 
scenic  artist  had  painted  a  portrait  of  Shake- 
speare. The  first  time  Pete  saw  it  he  looked  at 
it  a  long  while,  then  said :  ''Who's  that  up 
there?" 

The  artist  replied,  "That's  Shakespeare,  Mr. 
Myers." 

"Shakespeare !"  exclaimed  Pete ;  "what  did  he 
ever  do  for  this  town?  You  take  that  down 
and  put  Pete  Myers  up  there." 

At  the  opening  of  the  Opera  House,  which 
was  a  great  society  event,  as  nothing  like  it  had 
ever  been  seen  in  that  section,  the  citizens 
planned  to  present  Pete  with  a  gold-headed  cane. 
I  will  here  remark  that  Pete's  family  consisted 
of  three  boys,  who,  while  they  have  all  grown 
up  to  be  fine  men,  were  in  those  days  the  very 
worst  boys  in  town. 

On  this  occasion  Mrs.  Myers  had  coaxed  her 
husband  into  putting  on  a  clean  shirt  and  brush- 
ing his  clothes.  He  occupied  a  seat  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  stage  surrounded  by  all  the  principal 
men  of  the  city.  My  father,  in  eloquent  terms, 
lauded  Pete  for  what  he  had  done  and  presented 
him  with  the  cane ;  then  some  one  whispered  to 


24        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

Mr.  Myers  that  it  was  his  turn  to  speak.  After 
considerable  hesitation  he  finally  arose,  bowed 
awkwardly  to  the  speaker,  then  to  the  audience, 
and  said: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  giving  me  this  gold-headed 
cane.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  with  it, 
but  I  guess  it  will  come  in  pretty  handy  to  lick 
them  d n  boys  of  mine !" 


"Go  ON  WITH  YOUR  MONKEY  DOODLES." 

Some  years  after,  I  was  playing  "Rip  Van 
Winkle."  It  was  a  bitterly  cold  winter's  night; 
the  only  heat  we  had  in  the  theatre  was  a  fur- 
nace to  the  right  of  the  orchestra  box.  The  hall 
was  intensely  cold,  and  you  can  imagine  what 
I  suffered  in  the  rags  of  Rip.  I  had  just  com- 
menced the  awakening  scene,  was  sitting  up 
looking  foolishly  around,  when  Pete  came  down 
the  center  aisle  with  a  long  poker  in  his  hand 
and  yelled  out  to  me : 

"Hold  on,  John,  a  few  minutes  until  I  can  fix 
the  fire ;"  so  there  I  sat  shivering  with  cold,  while 
Pete  poked  the  fire  for  about  five  minutes,  and 
the  audience  indulged  in  uncontrollable  fits  of 
laughter.  When  he  had  finished  his  job  he 
turned  and  waved  the  poker  at  me,  and  said : 

"All  right,  John,  go  on  with  you  monkey  doo- 
dles!" 

The  same  sign  is  still  over  that  Opera  House. 
Old  Pete  has  passed  away.  His  youngest  son, 
who  was  not  born  at  the  time  of  these  happen- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        25 

ings,  is  now  the  manager,  but  the  father  will 
never  be  forgotten  by  the  people  of  that  little 
city. 

WHY  AUNTY  WAS  SORRY. 

I  had  a  maiden  aunt  who  had  never  attended 
a  theatre.  One  night  as  we  had  an  excellent  bill 
on  and  I  was  playing  a  good  comedy  part,  I 
induced  Aunty  to  go.  I  watched  her  carefully 
through  a  hole  in  the  curtain,  and  from  the  stage 
as  much  as  I  could  during  the  performance,  but 
I  was  unable  to  quite  catch  the  expression  of  her 
face.  The  next  day,  however,  I  called  to  see 
her,  and  in  the  course  of  conversation  asked  how 
she  enjoyed  the  performance.  She  said: 

"Oh,  I  liked  it  very  much,  but  was  so  sorry 
for  you!" 

I  asked  her,  "Why  ?" 

"Because,"  she  said,  "you  were  the  only  one 
the;'  laughed  at!" 


UNCLE'S  OPINION  OF  MY  ACTING. 

My  uncle  came  in  from  the  country  one  day, 
and  I  persuaded  him  to  stop  over  and  go  to  the 
theatre.  After  the  performance  we  went  into 
a  restaurant  for  refreshments.  As  he  did  not 
say  anything  about  the  play  I  started  to  draw 
him  out.  He  was  a  peculiarly  reticent  man,  never 
said  much  on  any  occasion.  At  last  I  blurted 
out: 

"Uncle,  how  did  you  like  it?" 


26        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  liked  some  parts  of  it  very 
well." 

"What  did  you  think  of  such  and  such  a  part, 
or  of  Mr.  So  and  So  or  Miss  So  and  So?" 

He  said  he  liked  them  or  didn't  like  them, 
whichever  the  case  might  be.  I  went  through 
the  entire  list,  never  mentioning  myself,  for  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  not  unless  he 
broached  the  subject  first;  finally,  not  being  able 
to  stand  the  suspense  any  longer,  I  carelessly 
remarked  that  I  did  not  play  as  well  as  I  usually 
did,  that  my  part  was  not  as  good  as  I  was  ac- 
customed to  have. 

"Well,"  he  drawled  out,  "they  seemed  to  like 
you  very  well  from  the  applause  they  gave  you." 
Then  he  stopped,  looked  me  straight  in  the  face, 
and  asked : 

"John,  how  much  do  you  get?" 

I  think  I  was  getting  about  twenty  dollars, 
but  I  told  him  fifty. 

"What,  fifty  dollars  a  week!" 

"Yes." 

"For  doing  what?" 

"Why,  for  acting." 

"Fifty  dollars  a  week  for  doing  what  I  saw 
to-night!"  He  emptied  his  glass,  set  it  down 
on  the  table,  reached  over  and  patted  me  on  the 
shoulder,  and  said : 

"John,  my  boy,  don't  let  them  lose  you!" 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        27 


TROUBLES  OF  A  FOND  FATHER. 

We  came  to  my  native  town  with  a  drama 
called  "Confusion,"  in  which  we  had  to  use  a 
baby.  Our  agent  was  instructed  -to  procure  one 
in  every  town  for  the  time  we  played  there.  Any 
one  who  has  seen  "Confusion"  will  remember 
the  plot  of  the  story  hangs  on  the  mixing  up 
of  the  baby  and  the  pug  dog  which  the  servant 
girl  and  the  servant  boy  hide  in  the  wrong  com- 
modes. The  agent  was  having  a  difficult  task 
in  securing  a  baby  in  my  town.  He  finally  heard 
that  my  brother  who  resided  there  had  a  new 
baby  in  the  family,  so  he  immediately  called  on 
my  sister-in-law,  made  known  his  wants,  and 
secured  her  promise  to  bring  the  baby  to  the 
theatre  that  evening.  At  the  appointed  time  she 
was  there,  and  accompanied  by  my  little  niece 
five  years  old;  the  baby  was  brought  behind  the 
scenes,  and  the  little  girl  was  placed  in 
charge  of  a  lady  in  front,  to  witness  the 
performance.  When  the  servant  girl  came 
on  with  the  baby  my  niece  was  all  ex- 
citement, as  the  scene  progressed  she  grew 
worse,  and  finally,  when  the  nurse  started  to 
place  the  baby  in  a  drawer  of  the  commode — 
the  mother,  of  course,  standing  behind,  unseen 
by  the  audience,  ready  to  take  the  baby — she 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  Springing  to  her  feet 
she  yelled  at  the  top  of  her  lungs : 

"Oh,  don't  put  my  little  brother  in  the  box, 
don't  put  him  in  the  box!" 

There  was  a  tremendous  laugh,  the  audience 


28        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

of  course  understanding  the  relationship  between 
the  baby  and  myself. 

My  brother,  who  was  a  railroad  man,  was  out 
of  town  when  this  occurred;  when  he  returned 
the  next  day,  he  not  only  heard  of  it,  but  read 
a  long  account  in  the  paper  of  how  his  infant 
had  made  a  wonderful  hit  at  the  theatre.  He 
declared  it  was  bad  enough  to  be  a  railroad  man, 

but  he'd  be  d d  if  John  was  going  to  make 

an  actor  out  of  that  kid ! 

TRYING  TIMES. 

During  several  seasons  I  was  first  with  one 
little  company,  and  then  with  another.  My  dear 
old  mother  used  to  pack  my  trunk  with  all  kinds 
of  nice  things,  things  that  no  one  but  a  mother 
would  think  of.  I  had  to  watch  her  though  dur- 
ing this  process  very  closely,  for  she  thought 
all  my  character  wardrobe  old  rags ;  one  day 
I  found  my  Rip  Van  Winkle  dress,  and  that 
wonderful  pair  of  trousers  I  had  bought  of  the 
negro  with  the  melancholy  mule,  and  several 
other  valuable  articles  that  I  could  not  possibly 
replace,  thrown  over  the  back  fence  into  a  ditch. 
She  would  not  listen  to  my  putting  those  dirty 
old  things  with  my  nice,  clean  clothes,  so  I  had 
to  get  them  myself,  wrap  them  up  in  paper,  and 
put  them  in  the  bottom  of  my  trunk. 

I  always  had  a  dreadful  time  taking  leave  of 
mother.  She,  having  never  been  away  from 
home,  seemed  to  think  that  each  time  I  left,  I 
was  going  to  the  end  of  the  world,  and  would 
never  come  back ;  but  I  used  to  turn  up  regularly 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        29 

like  the  proverbial  bad  penny;  and,  although  I 
went  away  with  good  clothes  and  everything  I 
needed,  I  generally  came  back  without  a  trunk 
and  very  few  clothes. 

I  remember  on  one  occasion  after  my  parents 
had  moved  to  Milwaukee  I  decided  to  make  them 
a  little  surprise  visit.  I  was  not  exactly  sure 
of  the  number  of  their  house.  Father  found  me 
walking  up  and  down  the  sidewalk  looking  ear- 
nestly at  the  different  numbers.  A  stranger 
would  have  mistaken  me  for  a  hobo  or  an  ama- 
teur burglar.  Although  it  was  January  and  the 
thermometer  was  down  to  twenty  below  zero, 
I  was  without  overcoat,  had  on  a  little  tourist's 
cap,  and  a  suit  of  clothes  that  had  seen  better 
days.  Father  remarked,  that  from  the  looks  of 
things  I  must  surely  have  my  ambitions  to  be- 
come an  actor  frozen  out  of  me  by  this  time.  It 
was  not  long  though  before  I  was  warmly  clad, 
and  before  many  days  I  had  another  engagement 
and  was  back  on  the  road.  At  last,  my  father 
seeing  that  I  was  determined  to  remain  in  the 
profession,  procured  me  an  engagement  in  St. 
Louis.  He  became  reconciled  to  the  life  I  had 
chosen,  and  was  until  the  day  of  his  death  my 
best  friend  and  adviser. 

"Pop"  SHIELS. 

All  the  boys  who  were  about  the  theatres  in 
St.  Louis  from  '72  to  '75,  will  remember  Wil- 
liam D.  Shiels,  "Pop"  Shiels,  as  he  was  then 
known.  He  was  a  tall,  angular  Scotchman,  finely 
educated,  had  played  in  the  best  theatres  in  Lon- 


30        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

don  and  Edinburgh,  had  been  to  Australia,  and 
came  to  this  country,  making  a  great  hit  in  New 
York  as  "Bailie  Nichol  Jarvie,"  in  "Rob  Roy." 

At  the  time  of  which  I  speak  he  was  the  first 
old  man  at  the  Olympic  Theatre,  St.  Louis,  a 
splendid  actor,  thoroughly  familiar  with  his  art 
and  all  the  technique  of  the  stage,  but  he  was 
an  eccentric  genius.  Although  I  tell  these  funny 
stories  of  him,  I  always  feel  that  I  should  ex- 
tend to  him  my  warmest  thanks  for  his  kind- 
ness in  teaching  me  many  things  about  acting; 
to  him  is  due  whatever  amount  of  success  I  have 
attained  in  the  business. 

He  had  a  daughter  of  whom  he  was  very 
proud;  he  imagined  she  had  a  wonderful  array 
of  talent.  This  young  lady  made  her  debut  in 
St.  Louis  as  "Pauline,"  in  "The  Lady  of  Lyons" 
— of  course,  you  are  all  aware  that  it  must  have 
been  either  Pauline  or  Juliet. 

Every  Sunday  (as  we  did  not  play  in  those 
days  on  Sunday  in  St.  Louis),  the  old  man  ar- 
ranged to  give  performances  in  Bellville  or  East 
St.  Louis,  just  across  the  river.  The  boys 
around  the  theatre  would  help  him ;  he  would 
give  them  a  few  dollars  if  he  made  anything, 
if  he  didn't  it  was  all  right.  "Pop"  Shiels  did 
not  believe  much  in  wasting  money  on  advertis- 
ing, so  he  made  it  a  point  to  go  over  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  week  and  do  his  own  "boosting."  He 
had  a  large  board  that  resembled  a  paddle,  with 
a  handle  to  it;  on  one  side  was  a  photograph  of 
his  daughter  Alice ;  on  the  other,  a  diagram  of 
the  hall ;  he  carried  this  in  one  hand,  and  a  bunch 
of  tickets  in  the  other.  He  would  go  from  store 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        31 

to  store,  and  in  a  commanding  stage  voice  ask : 

"A  picture  of  my  daughter  Alice,  a  diagram 
of  the  theatre,  how  many  seats  will  you  have?" 

Thus  he  became  a  walking  bill-board,  a  box- 
office,  and  a  lithographer. 

We  had  a  great  deal  of  sport  on  these  occa- 
sions and  always  looked  forward  to  them  as  a 
gala  time. 

The  next  summer  the  old  gentleman  started 
on  the  road  as  a  full-fledged  manager,  with  his 
daughter  as  star,  supported  by  your  humble  serv- 
ant— an  incomparable  company !  In  recalling 
this  time  I  could  fill  this  book  with  stories  of 
Shiels. 

We  had  a  large  company,  including  a  brass 
band.  Among  the  actors  were  several  who  have 
since  gained  fame  in  their  profession.  We  rarely 
received  a  salary,  but  we  all  liked  the  old  man  so 
well  that  we  stuck  by  him  an  entire  season.  Our 
band  used  to  play  every  afternoon  in  the  public 
square  or  make  a  parade.  Mr.  Shiels  was  un- 
usually fond  of  standing  in  the  crowd  and  pok- 
ing fun  at  the  leader  and  the  other  members 
of  the  band.  The  leader  was  an  irritable  little 
Dutchman,  but  he  could  play  an  E  Flat  cornet, 
and  he  did  not  like  the  old  man's  disturbing  him 
in  the  middle  of  one  of  his  best  solos.  One  day 
when  he  had  stood  it  as  long  as  he  could  he  sud- 
denly turned  into  a  practical  joker  himself,  and 
asked  the  city  marshal,  who  was  standing  nearby, 
to  please  arrest  the  old  man  for  annoying  the 
band.  The  marshal  did  not  know  who  "the  old 
man"  was,  it  being  our  first  day  in  town,  so  he 
dragged  him  forcibly  away,  followed  by  an  ad- 


32        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

miring  crowd,  locked  him  up  in  the  city  jail, 
and  we  never  got  him  out  until  night,  then  we 
had  to  pay  a  three-dollar  fine;  neither  the  jus- 
tice nor  the  policeman  saw  the  joke  at  all. 

Mr.  Shiels  had  a  very  large  and  miscellaneous 
wardrobe,  from  which  he  almost  entirely  dressed 
his  company.  For  instance,  if  one  of  the  boys 
went  to  him  and  said,  "Mr.  Shiels,  I  would  like 
to  have  twenty-five  cents,"  he  would  ask,  "My 
son,  what  do  you  want  with  twenty-five  cents?" 
Of  course,  the  young  man  would  not  like  to  con- 
fess that  he  wanted  it  to  buy  a  drink,  so  the  easi- 
est way  out  of  it  was  to  say  he  needed  a  pair 
of  socks ;  then  would  come  the  old  man's  tri- 
umph. With  a  look  that  was  peculiarly  his  own, 
he  would  gaze  upon  the  young  man  a  few  mo- 
ments, then  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  and 
call  up  to  his  wife : 

"Polly,  throw  down  a  pair  of  socks  for  Mr. 
Brown." 

On  one  occasion  when  we  had  an  extraor- 
dinarily good  week's  business  I  received  a  new 
pair  of  trousers ;  they  were  a  large  check  and 
I  was  jolly  proud  of  them,  but  there  was  almost 
a  mutiny  in  the  company  when  the  boys  heard 
of  it,  and  I  did  not  dare  wear  them  for  fear 
they  would  be  taken  from  me. 

On  one  occasion  Tom  McDonough,  the  prop- 
erty-man, went  to  "the  old  man,"  and  asked  for 
the  usual  twenty-five  cents — no  one  ever  thought 
of  going  over  twenty-five.  Tom  happened  to 
want  something  the  old  man  did  not  have,  and 
as  it  was  against  his  rules  to  give  up  money,  Tom 
resigned  his  exalted  position  of  bass  drum.  As 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        33 

the  band  could  not  go  on  parade  without  this 
piece,  "the  old  man"  announced  that  he  would 
beat  the  bass  drum  himself ;  and  as  he  did  not 
know  anything  about  it,  not  even  one  tune  from 
another  and  had  no  idea  of  time,  the  boys  all 
knew  what  would  happen.  But  we  started  on 
parade,  Shiels  with  the  drum  in  the  rear,  and  the 
boy  ahead  with  the  banner  announcing  theatre 
night ;  the  leader  started  the  first  tune,  the  bass 
drummer  went  thumping  along  irrespective  of 
time,  and  talking  furiously  to  himself  about  the 
way  the  property-man  had  treated  him.  Sud- 
denly we  came  to  a  turn  in  the  street,  the  boy 
with  the  banner,  not  knowing  we  were  going 
to  change  streets,  kept  on  straight  ahead,  the 
leader  turned  the  corner  and  the  rest  of  the  band 
followed  him.  Mr.  Shiels,  who  was  still  talk- 
ing to  himself,  totally  oblivious  of  what  was 
going  on  around  him.  kept  straight  ahead,  fol- 
lowing the  boy  with  the  banner,  and  pounding 
away  at  the  bass  drum.  People  rushed  out  of 
their  stores  to  see  this  dignified  gentleman  beat- 
ing the  drum  through  the  streets  all  alone.  He 
had  gone  fully  half  a  block  before  he  discovered 
he  was  "alone  in  the  world,"  and  by  the  time  he 
got  back  to  the  band,  out  of  breath  and  stream- 
ing with  perspiration,  he  had  burst  one  side  of 
the  drum  and  had  lost  the  drum  stick.  There 
followed  a  very  heated  conversation  between  him 
in  Scotch  and  the  leader  in  Dutch,  in  which  the 
leader  came  off  a  decided  victor ;  and  it  is  need- 
less to  say  that  Mr.  Shiels  never  again  appeared 
in  the  role  of  a  bass  drummer. 

He  was  noticeably  fond  of  making  speeches 


34        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

wherever  he  went,  especially  if  he  had  a  good 
house.  He  would  describe  their  beautiful  lit- 
tle town  as  reminding  him  of  some  place  in  Scot- 
land or  Australia ;  would  say  a  few  words  to  the 
gentlemen  in  the  audience  and  then  commence 
to  eulogize  the  ladies;  just  as  he  would  begin 
to  speak  about  them  in  the  sweetest  manner  pos- 
sible, he  would  suddenly  jump  to  the  front  of 
the  stage,  place  his  hands  on  his  coattail,  and 
announce  that  his  wife,  behind  the  curtain,  had 
stuck  .a  pin  in  him.  Whenever  he  made  too 
long  a  speech  and  we  thought  he  ought  to  stop, 
we  would  move  the  tables  and  chairs  and  beat 
the  floor  behind  the  curtain.  I  have  seen  the 
old  gentleman  become  so  enraged  that  he  would 
leave  the  stage  damning  everybody — the  au- 
dience included. 

Finally  a  change  came  over  him.  He  began 
to  read,  when  stopping  at  the  hotels,  tracts  and 
religious  papers.  One  day  he  went  to  a  revival 
meeting  and  the  next  day  he  announced  that  he 
had  professed  religion ;  said  we  were  all  a  lot 
of  sinners,  and  disbanded  the  company  at  short 
notice.  I  met  him  some  time  afterward ;  he 
had  become  a  devout  Baptist  minister,  sincere 
and  firm  in  his  belief.  When  last  I  heard  of  him 
he  had  a  church  in  a  little  town  in  Kansas,  but 
I  suppose  the  dear  old  fellow  is  dead  now.  Peace 
to  his  ashes  1 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        35 

"OUGHT  TO  HAVE  HAD  THEM  ON  IN  THE  FIRST 
PLACE." 

When  McDonough,  our  property-man,  first 
joined  the  company  he  took  the  part  of  the  old 
Signal  Man.  in  "Under  the  Gas  Light."  He 
comes  on  in  one  scene  wheeling  a  box  or  trunk, 
has  a  few  words  with  the  leading  lady,  who  is 
sitting  on  a  pile  of  freight,  then  goes  back  into 
the  station  and  immediately  returns  with  another 
box.  On  his  first  entrance  he  wore  a  gray  wig 
and  had  a  smooth-shaven  face;  on  his  second 
entrance,  having  been  gone  from  the  stage  only 
a  few  moments,  to  the  great  surprise  of  every 
one  he  had  added  a  pair  of  slugger  whiskers  to 
his  make-up.  I  asked  him  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity : 

"Tom,  for  heaven's  sake,  what  did  you  do  that 
for?" 

"Damn  it,  I  ought  to  have  had  them  on  in  the 
first  place,"  he  growled.  "That's  what  a  fel- 
low gets  into  when  he  has  to  handle  all  the  prop- 
erties— he  forgets  his  own." 


WANTED  TO  BE  SURE  OF  His  WORK. 

On  another  occasion  we  were  playing  "Col- 
leen Bawn,"  and  I  was  acting  the  dual  role  of 
Danny  Mann  and  Myles  Nacopleen.  not  an  easy 
task,  as  any  actor  will  understand.  When  I 
came  to  the  cave  scene  where  Danny  is  supposed 
to  be  shot  by  Myles  above  and  falls  into  the  wa- 
ter, as  I  was  playing  Danny,  and,  of  course, 


36        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

could  not  kill  myself,  I  had  the  property-man  fire 
the  gun  on  the  outside,  then  I  used  to  fall  off 
the  rock  and  while  crawling  along  take  off  my 
coat,  change  my  wig,  and  in  a  few  seconds  ap- 
pear on  the  rock  with  a  gun  as  Myles,  which 
was  the  great  climax  of  the  play.  On  this  oc- 
casion the  gun  which  McDonough  had,  failed  to 
go  off  and  I  had  to  fall  into  the  water  without 
being  shot;  of  course,  the  scene  was  ruined.  I 
went  at  poor  Tom  with  language  not  too  polite. 
He  promised  that  a  like  offense  should  never 
occur  again.  The  next  night  when  we  came  to 
that  scene  there  was  the  most  terrific  report  I 
ever  heard  in  my  life.  Tom  had  two  guns,  two 
pistols,  and  a  large  fire  cracker  in  a  barrel.  Every 
lamp  in  the  house — we  used  lamps  in  those  days 
— was  extinguished,  the  place  was  filled  with 
smoke  and  the  smell  of  powder.  Women  fainted 
and  screamed,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  all  I  heard 
Tom  sing  out : 

"Well,  I  guess  that  lobster  is  dead  this  time." 


McDoNoucn's  INDIAN. 

While  playing  an  engagement  in  Florida  we 
needed  some  supers  to  represent  miners.  All 
they  had  to  do  was  to  stand  on  the  stage  and 
cheer  several  times  when  the  heroine  came  on 
in  certain  scenes ;  but  on  this  occasion  there  were 
no  supers  to  be  had,  and  not  knowing  what  else 
to  do  the  manager  said  he  would  go  on,  and 
with  him  a  Semelo  Indian  boy  a^ed  seventeen, 
whom  he  had  picked  up  in  the  town.  The  lat- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        37 

ter  he  turned  over  to  McDonough  to  get  ready 
for  the  part.  McDonough  told  the  boy  that  all 
he  had  to  do  was  to  hurrah  whenever  that  man, 
pointing  to  the  manager,  did.  This  boy  was 
a  typical  Indian,  with  straight,  black  hair  and 
a  swarthy  face ;  McDonough  made  him  up  with 
red  sluggers.  As  soon  as  he  came  on  and  the 
audience  caught  sight  of  him  they  began  to 
laugh ;  the  actors  looked  at  him  and  they  were 
also  forced  to  join  in  the  laughter;  the  heroine 
came  on,  started  to  speak  her  lines,  had  one 
look  at  the  Indian,  and  it  was  all  off.  Finally, 
they  came  to  the  first  cue  for  the  shouts ;  as  there 
were  only  two  of  them  to  do  this  shouting,  the 
manager  cheered  ferociously,  and  after  it  was  all 
over  the  Indian  looked  at  him  and  bawled  out, 
"Whoop!" — just  one  yell,  his  face  never  chang- 
ing expression.  After  the  third  time  it  was  sim- 
ply of  no  use  in  trying  to  continue  the  play,  there 
was  pandemonium  in  the  audience,  and  the  lead- 
ing lady  was  hysterical.  McDonough  led  the 
poor  Indian  off  the  stage,  saying  to  him  as  they 
went  out : 

"Did  your  part  fine.  Hit  of  the  show.  Go 
buy  yourself  a  drink.  Going  to  star  you  next 
season !" 

I  don't  know  what  he  did  with  him.  One 
thing  is  sure,  we  never  again  saw  the  Indian. 

A  UNIQUE  STRIKE. 

Once  in  Butte,  Montana,  in  the  same  play,  in 
dear  old  John  Maguire's  theatre  we  had  secured 
some  regular  miners  to  act  as  supers.  They 


38        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

were  seated  on  the  stage  on  stumps  and  boxes; 
I  was  sitting  among  them  supposed  to  be  enjoy- 
ing a  song  and  dance  by  the  soubrette.  I  was 
startled  during  the  lady's  singing  by  hearing 
a  big,  husky  miner  calling  over  to  me  in  a  loud 
whisper,  "Boss,  how  much  do  we  get?"  I  said 
quietly,  "Fifty  cents,"  and  endeavored  to  pacify 
him  so  he  would  keep  still  during  the  remainder 
of  the  song,  but  he  was  evidently  in  for  an  ar- 
gument. "Aw,  naw,  we  want  a  dollar."  I  re- 
plied, "We  can  only  give  you  fifty  cents."  He 
said,  "Naw,  a  dollar  or  we  get  out,"  and  as  I 
couldn't  see  the  dollar,  they  deliberately  walked 
by  the  soubrette  and  stepped  down  off  the  primi- 
tive two-foot  stage  and  took  seats  among  the 
audience,  leaving  me  to  do  the  shouts  alone — 
I  didn't  even  have  a  Semelo  Indian. 


FRANK  MAYO. 

An  interesting  example  of  a  self-made  man 
and  his  advancement  in  the  profession  is  that  of 
the  late  Frank  Mayo.  He  entered  Maguire's 
Opera  House,  under  the  regime  of  Tom  Maguire, 
acting  as  super  and  occasionally  getting  a  small 
part  to  play.  Once  during  an  engagement  of 
Edwin  Forrest,  Mayo  was  among  a  mob  who 
were  supposed  to  shout  at  given  cues,  but  the 
young  man  became  so  excited  over  Forrest's  act- 
ing that  he  shouted  alone  very  loud  at  the  wrong 
time,  and  completely  spoiled  a  fine  scene.  For- 
rest became  very  angry,  ordered  Mayo  off  the 
stage  and  out  of  the  theatre.  Mayo  tried  to 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        39 

apologize;  Forrest  not  only  refused  to  accept 
it,  but  told  Mr.  Maguire,  the  manager: 

"That  young  man  will  have  to  leave  the  the- 
atre or  I  will." 

Now,  Mayo  was  quite  a  favorite  with  the  man- 
agement, so  Mr.  Maguire  went  to  him  and  in 
order  to  make  it  as  easy  for  him  as  possible  said : 

"Frank,  Mr.  Forrest  says  that  either  you  will 
leave  the  theatre  or  he  will.  Of  course,  just  at 
present,  we  can  spare  you  better  than  we  can 
Mr.  Forrest." 

Mayo,  after  thinking  a  moment,  replied : 

"Give  Mr.  Forrest  my  best  regards,  tell  him 
he  does  me  a  great  honor,  but  if  it  is  a  question 
of  Mr.  Forrest's  or  my  leaving  the  theatre,  why, 
I  will  cheerfully  resign."  This  answer  so  pleased 
the  manager  that  he  told  Forrest  of  it,  and  For- 
rest, who  was  quick  to  recognize  the  ready  wit 
of  the  young  man,  not  only  had  him  re-instated 
in  the  theatre,  but  arranged  it  so  that  he  could 
get  some  parts  to  play,  and  a  friendship  sprang 
up  between  the  two  that  lasted  during  Forrest's 
lifetime. 

After  leaving  Maguire's  Opera  House  Mayo 
went  into  the  California  Theatre  with  a  company 
that  has  very  likely  never  been  surpassed,  num- 
bering among  its  members  William  and  Charles 
Mestayer,  John  Wilson,  Harry  Edwards, 
Tom  Keene,  Owen  Marlowe,  Lawrence  Bar- 
rett, John  McCullough,  J.  H.  Barnett,  Jennie 
Lee,  May  Howard,  Mrs.  Judah,  and  others, 
comprising  names  that  have  become  illus- 
trious in  the  history  of  the  American 
stage.  That  was  indeed  Frank  Mayo's  first 


4O        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

rung  on  the  ladder  of  fame,  and  he  climbed  up 
this  ladder  in  the  same  theatre,  from  the  hum- 
ble capacity  of  super  to  the  position  of  leading 
man  and  the  greatest  romantic  actor  in  America. 

Any  one  who  has  seen  it  can  never  forget  his 
beautiful  creation  of  Davy  Crockett.  Nature 
it  is  in  the  rough,  an  ideal  poem  of  the  back- 
woods. 

One  evening  during  a  performance  of  Crock- 
ett, he  was  visited  by  that  wonderful  marksman, 
William  F.  Cody  (Buffalo  Bill).  Mr.  Cody  was 
then  just  branching  out  as  an  actor  in  a  play 
written  by  Ned  Bunting,  and  was  supported  by 
Wild  Bill  and  Texas  Jack,  all  great  men  of  the 
plains  with  the  lasso  and  the  rifle,  but  none  of 
them  knew  much  about  the  art  of  acting.  Now, 
Mayo,  on  the  other  hand  was  well  coached  in 
acting,  but  knew  almost  nothing  about  the  han- 
dling of  a  rifle.  On  this  occasion  Buffalo  Bill 
called  on  Mr.  Mayo  in  his  dressing-room,  and 
looking  upon  Davy  Crockett  as  a  backwoods- 
man like  himself,  he  naturally  directed  the  con- 
versation into  his  favorite  channel.  Mayo  knew 
as  little  about  such  things  as  any  man  in  the 
world,  but  he  managed  to  hold  his  own.  Finally 
Bill  rose  to  go,  and  giving  Mayo  a  hearty  shake 
of  the  hand  said  in  the  most  patronizing  tone 
imaginable : 

"Well,  Frank,  you  and  I  are  a  great  deal 
alike,  if  we  can't  act  we  can  shoot." 

The  great  scene  in  Davy  Crockett  is  the  end- 
ing in  the  third  act,  where  the  heroine  and  Crock- 
ett are  in  his  hunting  cabin,  he  having  carried 
her  there  out  of  the  snow  and  storm,  pursued 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        41 

by  a  pack  of  hungry  wolves.  He  has  laid  her 
tenderly  on  a  couch  of  furs,  and  in  his  efforts 
to  make  a  fire  to  warm  her  has  used  every  piece 
of  wood  about  the  place,  including  the  large  oak 
bar  on  the  door.  The  sound  of  the  wolves  is 
heard  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  and  finally  when 
they  are  just  at  the  door,  he  places  his  bare 
arm  through  the  sockets  and  bars  it. 

Mr.  Mayo  had  always  had  stuffed  wolves' 
heads,  and  these  were  shuffled  through  the  aper- 
tures and  worked  by  the  property-man,  and  the 
men  of  the  company  were  trained  to  imitate  the 
howls  of  the  wolves  so  that  the  effect  was  al- 
most perfect.  For  a  long  time  he  nourished 
the  idea  that  the  introduction  of  the  real  thing, 
that  is,  live  wolves,  would  be  a  successful  nov- 
elty, so  he  procured  several  that  were  tame  and 
harmless.  When  they  were  pushed  into  the  aper- 
tures during  their  rehearsal  they  howled  "for 
further  orders,"  but  when  night  came  it  was  a 
different  story.  The  lights  evidently  fright- 
ened them,  for  instead  of  howling  they  shrank 
back,  and  no  sound  could  be  gotten  out  of  them ; 
and  to  make  matters  worse,  after  they  were  put 
back  in  their  cages,  and  during  a  particularly 
quiet  scene  they  set  up  such  a  howling  that  they 
ruined  the  whole  performance,  it  being  impos- 
sible to  stop  them.  Never  afterward  did  Mr. 
Mayo  indulge  in  the  novelty  of  live  wolf  actors. 

His  manager,  in  writing  for  a  date  to  a  local 
manager  in  a  provincial  city,  sent  one  of  the 
Davy  Crockett  programmes ;  in  the  synopsis 
were  the  words : 

"Act  3.     The  wolves  at  the  door." 


42        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

The  local  manager  answered  back  that  he  did 
not  think  he  could  play  Mr.  Mayo's  troupe,  that 
they  had  had  a  wolf  show  there  the  week  before, 
"The  Wolves  of  New  York."  (Kind  remem- 
brances of  dear  old  Fel.) 


THAT  SAVED  HIM. 

It  was  at  the  California  Theatre,  San  Fran- 
cisco, during  an  engagement  of  Forrest  that  a 
young  man  who  was  cast  to  play  a  small  part 
in  which  he  had  to  make  a  very  important  and 
difficult  speech,  failed  at  rehearsal  to  speak  the 
lines  as  the  great  actor  wished  them.  The  young 
man  became  very  much  excited  and  frightened, 
and  as  Forrest  kept  scolding  him  he  grew  worse 
instead  of  better.  Finally  Forrest  looked  at  him 
in  disgust  and  said: 

"Young  man,  stand  over  there  and  listen  to 
me  read  that  speech."  Then  Forrest  proceeded 
in  his  full  rich  voice  to  deliver  the  speech  as 
only  he  could,  and  when  he  had  finished,  turned 
to  the  trembling  young  man  and  said : 

"There,  can't  you  speak  it  like  that?" 

"No,  Mr.  Forrest,"  said  the  young  man,  "if 
I  could  I  would  not  be  working  for  six  dollars 
a  week."  This  answer  completely  knocked  For- 
rest out,  and  when  he  recovered  he  asked: 

"Is  that  all  you  get?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  timid  young  man. 

"Then  read  it  any  way  you  damn  please,"  was 
Forrest's  curt  reply. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.       43 


FORREST'S  "LITTLE  MAN." 

Forrest  was  playing  "Rolla"  in  "Pizarro." 
During  the  play  he  has  to  carry  a  child  on  his 
back  over  a  bridge.  Being  very  fond  of  children 
he  was  always  careful  to  reassure  the  little  fellow 
in  order  that  he  might  not  be  excited.  On  this 
occasion  when  he  was  about  the  middle  of  the 
bridge  and  the  little  fellow  was  holding  on  to 
his  neck  with  a  vise-like  grip,  he  said  in  his 
deep  bass  voice : 

"Don't  be  frightened,  my  little  man,  I  won't 
let  you  fall."  He  was  so  astonished  that  he 
nearly  fell  off  the  bridge  himself  when  the  "lit- 
tle man"  replied  in  a  voice  as  deep  as  his  own, 

"You'd  better  not,  you  son  of  a  gun !" 

It  seems  that  the  child  they  had  engaged  for 
this  part  had  disappointed  them  at  the  last  mo- 
ment and  the  only  available  substitute  they  could 
find  was  a  little  dwarf  about  forty  years  of  age, 
who  worked  in  a  cigar  store  next  door. 


WHAT  PUZZLED  HIM. 

Who  has  ever  travelled  over  the  Montana  Cir- 
cuit without  meeting  genial  John  Maguire?  At 
the  time  of  which  I  speak  he  was  managing  the 
theatres  at  Butte,  Anaconda,  Helena,  and  Mis- 
soula,  with  headquarters  at  Butte. 

An  agent  one  day  called  on  Maguire's  local 
manager  at  Anaconda  and  asked  what  time  he 
had  his  orchestra  called. 


44        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

"Oh,"  said  the  manager,  "any  time  you  want 
them,  they  are  always  here." 

"How  many  pieces  have  you?"  asked  the 
agent. 

"Three,"  said  the  manager. 

"What  are  they?" 

The  manager  looked  at  him  with  one  of  those 
cheerful  smiles  which  the  local  manager  gen- 
erally has,  and  said,  "A  piano,  a  stool,  and  a 
cover !" 

The  agent  laughed  until  he  was  humpbacked, 
thought  it  the  best  story  he  had  ever  heard. 
When  he  reached  Butte  he  started  to  tell  it  to 
Maguire;  after  he  had  finished,  to  his  great  sur- 
prise, it  did  not  have  any  effect  upon  John  at 
all,  he  merely  scratched  his  head  thoughtfully 
and  said  in  his  drawling  way : 

"Well,  I  knew  they  had  a  piano  and  a  stool, 
but  where  the  devil  did  they  get  the  cover?" 


JOHN  MAGUIRE'S  DOG. 

John  had  a  dog  called  Tag — a  most  wonder- 
ful animal.  It  knew  more  than  one-half  of  the 
men  in  town.  I  could  tell  a  great  many  remark- 
able things  this  dog  did,  but  I  shall  only  relate 
this  one  little  incident.  Tag  was  always  about 
the  theatre  and  was  in  the  habit  of  going  in  and 
out  during  a  performance  at  pleasure.  But  on 
one  occasion  when  a  strange  company  was  play- 
ing, the  man  on  the  door  did  not  know  Tag  from 
any  other  dog,  and  every  time  he  tried  to  walk 
in  the  man  drove  him  out.  When  Tag  found 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        45 

out  he  couldn't  get  in  he  stood  and  watched  the 
people  for  a  short  while.  In  one  corner  of  the 
lobby  was  a  small  pile  of  papers  thrown  out  the 
night  before.  So  Tag,  after  watching  a  while 
longer,  walked  over  to  this  pile  of  rubbish, 
scratched  around  in  it  until  he  found  what  looked 
like  a  ticket,  trotted  with  assurance  back  to  the 
door,  and  presented  this  bit  of  paper  to  the 
keeper,  who  accepted  it  with  a  good-natured 
smile,  and  the  dog  marched  proudly  in  and  saw 
the  show. 


"On,  THE  WILD  CHARGE  THEY  MADE:" 

They  gave  John  Maguire  a  great  benefit  once 
in  Butte,  the  most  remarkable  benefit  ever  given 
to  a  man  in  this  country.  It  did  not  take  place 
in  a  theatre,  but  at  the  fair  grounds,  and  the  re- 
ceipts amounted  to  between  twenty  and  thirty 
thousand  dollars.  The  stores  and  business 
houses  all  closed  and  it  was  a  great  holiday. 

As  Maguire,  in  his  early  days,  had  aspired  to 
be  an  actor — I  believe  he  once  played  "Raphael," 
in  "The  Marble  Heart"  (as  an  Irishman) — he 
was  down  on  the  bill  to  recite  "The  Charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade."  Not  only  was  John  unfamiliar 
with  the  lines  but  he  had  been  out  with  a  lot  of 
good  fellows  and  was  feeling  a  little  groggy.  Of 
course,  on  his  entrance  he  received  a  splendid 
ovation ;  he  bowed  his  thanks  and  started  to  re- 
cite "The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,"  some- 
thing like  this : 

"Cannon  to  the  right  of  them,  cannon  to  the 


46        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

left  of  them,  oh,  the  wild  charge  they  made ;  into 
the  Valley  of  Death  rode  the  six  hundred,  oh, 
the  wild  charge  they  made."  This  was  about  all 
he  knew  of  the  piece,  and  as  he  was  tendered  a 
most  voracious  applause  he  started,  as  soon  as 
he  recovered  his  breath,  to  repeat  the  lines. 
Finally  he  reached  such  a  point  that  all  he  could 
say  was : 

"Oh,  the  wild  charge  they  made,  oh,  the  wild 
charge  they  made!"  Suddenly  a  bright  thought 
struck  him,  "Ah,  this  is  where  I  can  work  in 
a  little  business,"  and  at  once  proceeded  to  an- 
nounce in  his  inimitable  bland  manner: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  next  attraction  in 
my  theatre  will  be  Mr.  Lawrence  Barrett,  the 
celebrated  tragedian.  I  am  bringing  him  to  this 
city  at  a  very  large  expense,  and  for  this  en- 
gagement the  price  of  seats  will  be  as  follows, — 
the  parquette  and  dress  circle,  three  dollars ;  the 
balcony,  two  dollars ;  and  the  gallery,  one  dol- 
lar. Mr.  Barrett  is,  I  assure  you — ,"  just 
then  John  was  interrupted  by  a  small  boy  in  the 
crowd  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  lungs: 

"Oh,  the  wild  charge  they  made!" 


"THAT'S  THE  OPEHA  HOUSE  BURNING  DOWN." 

Our  company  had  been  doing  a  discouraging 
business  in  Montana.  We  came  at  last  to  a 
small  town,  I  think  it  was  Great  Falls — it  did 
not  amount  to  much  at  that  time.  We  were  in- 
formed upon  our  arrival  that  there  was  a  great 
convention  of  cattlemen  and  sheepherders  in 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        47 

town,  and  were  assured  of  a  large  house ;  in  fact, 
we  were  notified  before  we  reached  the  town  that 
the  entire  1  )use  was  sold.  To  be  sure  we  were 
highly  elated.  When  we  arrived  we  found  the 
report  to  be  correct,  and  visions  of  big  salary 
loomed  up  before  us. 

About  six  o'clock  we  were  standing  on  the 
veranda  of  the  hotel,  the  manager  bubbling  over 
with  happiness  at  our  unexpected  good  fortune, 
when  suddenly  he  exclaimed : 

"Look  at  that  extraordinary  red  glow !  Isn't 
that  the  most  gorgeous  sunset  you  ever  saw  in 
your  life?"  He  waxed  fairly  enthusiastic  over  it; 
just  then  one  of  the  natives  who  was  standing 
there,  calmly  remarked : 

"Why,  boss,  that  ain't  a  sunset,  that's  the 
opera  house  burning  down !"  and  our  blasted 
hopes  mingled  their  ashes  with  that  of  the  de- 
stroyed building.  Oh,  the  hollow  mockery  of  a 
burning  air  castle ! 


A  FULL  BOARD  BUT  NO  HOUSE. 

In  another  little  town  of  Montana  the  same 
manager  and  I  walked  into  the  bookstore  where 
they  sold  the  reserved  seats  for  the  theatre.  .The 
diagram  of  the  hall  in  those  days  generally  con- 
sisted of  a  large  board  showing  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  seats,  and  whenever  they  sold  a  seat 
they  put  a  tack  in  the  board.  We  were  usually 
very  careful  when  we  walked  into  the  store  and 
looked  at  the  diagram  to  appear  indifferent  as  to 
whether  any  seats  were  sold  or  not;  but  on  this 


48        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

occasion  an  unexpected  sight  met  our  gaze.  The 
entire  board  was  filled  with  tacks,  and  of  course 
we  knew  the  house  was  sold.  The  manager  in 
his  great  delight  took  me  out  and  bought  me  a 
drink — something  he  never  did  before. 

Night  came ;  we  went  joyfully  to  the  theatre 
and  prepared  for  the  performance.  Eight  o'clock 
— not  a  soul  in  the  house.  We  thought  this  is 
the  old  story,  they  come  late  in  this  town.  Eight- 
thirty — no  one  in  sight. 

"Well,"  said  the  manager,  "this  beats  all!" 
so  he  went  to  the  local  manager  and  asked : 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"I  guess  no  one's  coming,"  answered  the  local 
manager. 

"How  about  the  reserved  seats  sale?" 

"Why,  there  were  no  reserved  seats  sold." 

"What,"  said  the  manager,  "that  board  was 
full  of  tacks!" 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand  our  way  of  do- 
ing. You  see  we  fill  the  board  with  tacks,  and 
when  we  sell  a  seat  we  take  one  out!" 


KNEW  MORE  THAN  HE  COULD  SAY. 

There  was  in  Debar's  Theatre,  St.  Louis,  a 
young  man  of  the  name  of  Johnnie  Brown. 
Johnnie  was  a  sort  of  fixture  there.  He  would 
have  been  a  good  actor  if  he  could  have  talked, 
but  he  stuttered  so  you  could  not  understand  a 
word  he  said.  Very  small  bits  or  servant  parts 
were  all  we  trusted  to  him.  Johnnie  once  re- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        49 

marked  that  he  knew  as  much  as  any  other  young 
man  in  the  company,  but  he  couldn't  say  it. 

When  Madame  Modjeska  first  came  to  the 
theatre  to  play  her  initial  star  engagement  in  St. 
Louis  she  opened  in  "Adrienne  Lecouvreur,"  and 
Johnnie  was  cast  to  play  the  servant  who  an- 
nounces the  Manager  of  the  Theatre  Comedie 
Franqaise.  The  speech  was  as  follows : 

"Monsieur  Michelette  of  the  Theatre  Comedie 
Franchise."  Every  one,  Johnnie  himself  in- 
cluded, knew  that  he  would  never  get  it  right  and 
wondered  what  he  would  say.  Night  came ; 
there  was  a  wonderful  welcome  for  the  great  act- 
ress, the  house  was  crowded  to  the  doors.  Every- 
thing in  the  play  was  going  smoothly  until 
Johnnie  came  on  for  his  announcement.  He  ap- 
peared in  the  center  door,  clad  in  a  handsome 
livery ;  started  to  speak,  stammered,  rolled  his 
eyes,  and  finally  with  one  great  effort  completely 
convulsed  the  audience,  and  stopped  the  per- 
formance for  fully  five  minutes  by  announcing: 

"M-m-is-ss-ter  M-m-i-t-t-chell  of  the  T-t-t-hea- 
tre  Comeek !"  and  then  hurried  off  the  stage. 
(The  aforesaid  Mr.  Mitchell  was  running  a  vari- 
ety house  on  Pine  street  at  the  time.) 

On  another  occasion,  much  against  his  will,  he 
was  cast  to  play  second  actor  in  "Hamlet." 
Johnnie  loudly  protested  that  he  could  never 
speak  the  lines,  but  as  they  had  no  one  else  for 
the  part  he  had  to  go  on.  I  think  he  made  his 
bravest  effort  that  night ;  he  started : 

"T-h-h-oughts  b-b-bl-ack,  h-h-a-n-d-s  ap-pt, 
d-r-r-ugs  f — it — oh,  hell,  I  knew  I'd  make  a  mess 
of  it!" 


5O        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

Several  years  afterward  I  met  Johnnie  in  New 
York  City  one  day.  He  stammered  more  hope- 
lessly than  ever. 

"Johnnie,"  I  said,  "you  stutter  worse  than  you 
did  in  St.  Louis." 

"W-w-w-e-1-1,  J-j-o-h-h-n,"  he  replied, 
"t-th-h-is  is  a  b-b-bigger  t-t-t-own  th-h-h-an 
Sain-t-t  L-11-o-uis !" 


"WITNESS." 

Back  in  the  early  '8o's  I  was  part  manager  of 
a  little  company  that  started  out  during  the  sum- 
mer season  in  quest  of  glory  and,  incidentally,  a 
little  money.  We  received  all  the  glory  we 
wanted,  but  very  little  money. 

My  partner  went  ahead  and  doubled  back  to 
play  two  or  three  parts  and  sell  tickets.  While 
on  one  of  his  "prospecting"  tours  looking  for  a 
place  to  play,  he  came  across  a  small  town  in 
Illinois,  I  have  forgotten  the  name,  but  they 
manufacture  reapers  there.  The  landlord  of  the 
only  hotel  owned  the  hall,  and  my  partner  made 
with  him  the  most  wonderful  contract  share  rnd 
share  alike,  that  I  have  ever  seen,  before  or  since ; 
to  wit :  The  landlord  was  to  furnish  one-half  the 
board  in  his  own  hotel,  one-half  the  hall  rent  of 
his  own  hall,  one-half  the  salaries  (we  never 
paid  any),  one-half  the  printing  and  other  ex- 
penses including  bar  bills,  for  which  he  was  to 
receive  one-half  of  the  net  proceeds.  What 
would  the  present-day  syndicates  say  to  terms 
like  this?- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        51 

On  the  first  night  of  the  show  I  went  to  the 
landlord  and  asked  him  if  he  wanted  to  sell 
tickets  or  take  them. 

"Oh,  I  ain't  got  no  time  for  that,"  he  answered 
curtly,  "you  boys  must  run  that  vourselves,"  and 
we  did.  The  old  man  did  not  have,  or  at  least 
did  not  take,  the  time  to  run  his  hotel  properly. 
He  had  a  young  man  in  the  office  who  worked 
in  the  capacity  of  clerk,  porter,  and  waiter  on 
table.  He  was  excessively  familiar  with  all  the 
regular  boarders,  who  were  principally  men 
working  in  the  reaper  factory. 

My  partner,  in  order  to  look  as  much  like  a 
manager  as  possible,  wore  a  tall  white  hat  and 
linen  duster ;  and  this  hat  was  a  mark  for  the 
sallies  of  the  aforesaid  young  man,  who  never 
lost  an  opportunity  of  passing  some  joke  about 
it.  My  partner  stood  it  until  one  day  just  at  the 
noon  hour,  when  all  the  boarders  were  assembled 
in  the  wash  room  preparing  for  dinner,  the  young 
man,  thinking  it  a  good  occasion  to  take  a  crack 
at  the  hat,  did  so,  and  my  partner  took  a  crack 
at  him,  giving  him  a  beautiful  black  eye,  and 
otherwise  disfiguring  his  face.  He  could  not  ap- 
pear to  wait  table,  but  he  hied  away  to  the  jus- 
tice ;  they  got  out  a  warrant  on  the  man  who  had 
abused  the  joker's  optic,  had  him  arrested,  and 
carried  off  to  jail.  The  trial  was  set  for  that 
afternoon.  I  was  informed  that  the  justice  was 
very  severe,  was  never  known  to  let  any  one  off ; 
I  also  found  out  that  most  of  the  boarders  had 
been  up  before  him,  and,  furthermore,  that  they 
had  little  love  for  the  porter.  So  I  told  my 
partner  to  keep  still,  and  I  undertook  to  prepare 


52        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

his  defense.  As  I  have  said  previously,  my 
father  was  a  famous  criminal  lawyer,  and  I  was 
brought  up  in  his  office. 

Well,  all  the  boarders  who  were  present  were 
summoned  as  witnesses.  I  happened  to  be  stand- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  shortly  before  the 
case  was  called,  and  noticed  that  as  each  wit- 
ness went  up  he  looked  at  me  and  winked.  Now, 
I  knew  there  was  something  doing,  but  I  could 
not  tell  what.  I  went  into  court  with  great  mis- 
givings. My  partner  was  there  looking  like  the 
fellow  who  stole  the  sheep  in  "The  Mutton 
Trial."  The  young  man's  attorney  made  a 
speech  telling  how  his  client  had  been  grossly 
assaulted,  etc.,  and  wound  up  by  denouncing 
show  people  in  general,  and  us  in  particular.  The 
plaintiff  then  went  on  the  stand — black  eye  and 
all — and  related  his  story;  he  told  nothing  but 
the  truth,  and  it  looked  pretty  dark  for  my  part- 
ner. Then  the  first  witness  was  called.  He 
looked  wise,  swore  he  was  in  the  room  at  the 
hour  mentioned,  and  that  there  was  no  visible 
trouble;  he  saw  no  one  struck,  and  if  anybody 
had  been  he  surely  would  have  seen  it.  A  dozen 
others  went  on  the  stand  and  swore  to  the  same 
thing.  You  should  have  seen  the  faces  of  the 
judge  and  the  lawyer — and  the  porter,  ye  gods! 
— he  looked  like  a  frightened  ghost.  My  part- 
ner likewise  seemed  a  trifle  startled,  but  soon 
managed  to  regain  perfect  composure.  When  it 
came  my  turn  to  speak  I  merely  said,  as  if  I 
knew  it  was  all  a  mistake: 

"Why,  judge,  this  young  man  has  been  dream- 
ing or  must  have  fallen  out  of  bed  or  been  walk- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        53 

ing  in  his  sleep,  for  here  are  a  number  of  re- 
sponsible people  all  swearing  that  nothing  of  the 
kind  happened."  The  judge  looked  puzzled,  and, 
after  wiping  his  glasses  several  times,  said : 

"This  is  the  strangest  case  I  ever  had.  The 
young  man  most  certainly  has  been  dreaming  or 
else  there  has  been  the  tallest  amount  of  lying 
done  ever  on  record.  The  evidence  shows  no 
assault  although  the  plaintiff  does.  The  defend- 
ant is  discharged." 

My  partner  and  I  were  warmly  congratulated 
and  we  all  went  out  and  had  a  drink,  for  which 
the  landlord  paid  half. 

That  night  at  the  show,  not  going  on  until 
late,  I  was  "on  the  door."  There  was  a  big 
crowd  waiting  for  the  doors  to  open.  We  thought, 
"here's  where  we  make  good."  Well,  they  started 
to  come  in.  For  a  long  while  every  man  who 
passed  me  looked  wise  and  said  to  me  in  a  stage 
whisper : 

"Witness!" 

Most  of  them  had  brought  their  families  and 
they  took  particular  pains  to  deposit  them  in  the 
best  seats  in  the  theatre.  We  had  a  fine  house, 
in  fact,  "standing  room  only,"  and  I  cannot  re- 
call a  performance  that  ever  went  so  well.  I 
think  we  took  in  money  that  night  to  the  amount 
of  sixteen  dollars  and  fifty  cents — of  which  the 
landlord  got  half. 


54       John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 
THE  BANKER'S  DAUGHTER. 

In  the  same  town  a  petition  was  sent  to  us 
signed  by  the  mayor  and  all  the  leading  citizens 
to  play  "The  Banker's  Daughter."  They  had 
never  seen  or  heard  of  "The  Banker's  Daughter" 
until  a  Chicago  travelling  man  told  some  lady 
there  that  it  was  the  greatest  society  play  of  the 
day,  and  she,  naturally,  told  her  neighbors  and 
they  kept  circulating  it  until  the  entire  town  was 
interested  in  "The  Banker's  Daughter."  To  be 
sure,  we  wished  to  oblige  them  as  they  had  been 
so  kind  to  us,  but  not  having  the  manuscript 
nor  the  right  to  play  it  if  we  had  it,  we  set  about 
devising  some  means  of  satisfying  them.  Finally 
we  produced  Bartley  Campbell's  play  entitled 
"Fate,"  and  called  it  "The  Banker's  Daughter." 
It  resembles  about  as  -much  the  "The  Banker's 
Daughter"  as  "Hamlet"  does  the  farce  comedy. 
But  from  the  rise  of  the  curtain  until  the  fall, 
the  audience  was  in  raptures.  As  we  approached 
the  end  of  the  play  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me 
that  there  had  been  no  allusion  made  whatever 
to  the  subject  we  were  supposed  to  be  playing; 
I  was  making  the  effort  of  my  life  to  think  of 
something  to  say,  when,  just  as  the  curtain  was 
about  to  fall  the  leading  lady,  an  extremely 
bright  girl  who  has  since  attained  a  high  place 
in  the  profession,  threw  her  arms  around  my 
neck  and  exclaimed : 

"Thank  heaven,  I  am  a  banker's  daughter!" 
and  the  audience  departed,  thinking  they  had 
seen  the  long-talked-of  play,  and  declaring  it 
to  be  the  best  that  had  ever  been  in  the  town. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.       $$ 


I  REGISTERED  FOR  MYSELF  AFTER  THAT. 

Another  summer  I  went  out  with  this  same 
partner,  to  play  parlor  engagements  in  the 
smaller  towns.  The  company  consisted  of  my 
partner,  his  wife,  and  myself.  We  had  no  sala- 
ries to  pay,  and,  of  course,  got  along  swim- 
mingly. 

We  stopped  one  day  in  a  little  town  in  Ten- 
nessee. My  partner  went  in  and  registered,  as 
he  generally  did,  for  the  party.  The  landlord 
looked  at  the  register  and  immediately  there  was 
a  great  commotion  in  the  quiet  hotel ;  mine  host 
gave  up  his  own  rooms  to  my  partner  and  his 
wife ;  the  negro  servants  hustled  around  and  se- 
cured dainty  trifles,  and  fresh  flowers  were 
placed  in  great  profusion  in  their  rooms.  And 
mine — well,  I  was  put  up  in  a  gloomy,  comfort- 
less garret  in  a  tiny  room  with  a  bed  and  a 
chair,  with  not  even  a  place  to  wash.  At  din- 
ner my  partner  and  his  wife  were  seated  at  a 
separate  table  with  two  or  three  servants  to  wait 
on  them  and  had  extra  fare  from  what  was 
served  to  the  rest  of  the  boarders ;  while  I  was 
seated  over  in  a  little  corner  by  myself  and  had 
hard  work  getting  anything.  To  use  a  common 
expression,  I  was  "sore."  After  the  meal  I  went 
out  and  walked  around  the  hotel  a  couple  of 
times,  came  through  the  office  and  finally 
brought  up  against  the  counter.  I  was  deter- 
mined to  find  out  from  the  landlord  why  it  was 
I  had  been  treated  so  shabbily  and  my  partner 
had  been  given  the  best  in  the  hotel.  Just  then 


56        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

my  gaze  fell  upon  the  register — everything  was 
explained.  My  partner  had  written  therein  these 
words : 

"Lord  de  Mortimer,  lady,  and  valet." 


"You   ARE   HEREBY   NOTIFIED  TO   WORK   THE 

STREETS." 

\ 

We  kept  on  during  the  summer  and  finally 
located  for  a  rest  in  Peru,  Indiana,  a  pretty  lit- 
tle city.  We  used  to  play  there  once  a  week  as- 
sisted by  local  amateurs.  The  natives  looked 
upon  us  as  residents  of  the  town,  so  much  so 
that  when  the  poll  tax  collector  came  around 
and  we  refused  to  pay  the  tax  we  were  served 
with  the  following  notice: 

PERU,  INDIANA,  Sept.  2,  1876. 
MR.  J.  W.  BURTON  : 

You  are  hereby  notified  to  work  the  streets 
next  Tuesday  and  Wednesday,  the  5th  and  6th 
days  of  September,  and  bring  with  you  a  shovel 
or  pick.  Meet  at  corner  of  Main  and  Lafay- 
ette Streets  at  8  o'clock  a.  m.  I.  HEHL, 

Street  Commissioner. 

I  never  found  out  whether  it  was  a  joke  or 
the  real  thing,  but  we  did  not  appear  with  the 
"pick  and  shovel,"  and  nothing  more  was  ever 
said  of  it. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        57 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  TOWN. 

Coming  out  over  the  Northern  Pacific  with 
Patti  Rosa  our  train  was  delayed  by  a  wreck 
in  the  Bad  Lands.  There  could  not  have  been 
a  more  desolate  place  on  earth  to  pass  away  the 
time,  but  fortune  favored  us  a  little,  for  we  hap- 
pened to  be  at  the  station  near  a  very  small  town. 
John  Dunn  and  I  were  walking  up  and  down  the 
platform  bemoaning  our  fate  when  it  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  him  to  have  a  little  fun  with  some 
of  the  natives  who  were  gathered  around  the 
depot.  Now,  John  always  spoke  very  slowly 
and  with  a  slight  drawl.  He  got  his  eye  on  an 
individual  that  I  shall  never  forget;  he  was 
six  feet  high  and  so  thin,  he  absolutely  looked 
as  if  he  would  break  in  two.  John  approached 
him  and  said  in  his  peculiar  way : 

"My  friend,  where  is  your  hall?" 

This  thin  piece  of  humanity  instantly  straight- 
ened up  until  he  fairly  looked  down  on  John, 
and  in  the  most  patronizing  tone  mingled  with 
disgust,  said : 

"Hall — hell— we  got  opery !" 

John  had  no  more  to  say,  he  was  knocked  out 
in  the  first  round.  When  the  train  started  and 
we  moved  down  the  track,  sure  enough,  there 
was  a  dilapidated  building  that  had  undoubtedly 
been  in  its  palmy  days  a  skating  rink.  Over 
the  door  in  large  letters  it  said  "Opera  House." 


_$8        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 


SHOULD  HAVE  HAD  A  BETTER  HOUSE. 

It  was  on  that  same  tour  that  another  amus- 
ing incident  occurred.  One  bitter  cold  night  the 
stage  manager  had  gone  early  to  the  theatre  to 
have  it  lighted  up  and  to  rehearse  a  new  lady 
who  had  joined  the  company.  He  was  going 
through  the  scenes  with  her  as  we  did  not  have 
time  for  a  general  rehearsal. 

There  was  a  large  stove  near  the  door,  which 
was  throwing  out  volumes  of  heat,  making  every- 
thing warm  and  cheerful  within.  Outside  it  was 
snowing  a  perfect  blizzard.  In  the  hallway  was 
a  solitary  man  wrapped  in  a  large  fur  coat ;  as 
he  had  evidently  come  to  attend  the  perform- 
ance the  manager  asked  him  to  step  inside  and 
take  a  seat.  The  curtain  was  up  and  the  young 
lady  was  reciting  her  part,  all  of  which  the 
stranger  watched  with  the  keenest  interest. 
Finally,  after  the  rehearsal  was  over,  the  curtain 
was  let  down  preparatory  for  the  coming  per- 
formance. Then  the  stranger  got  up,  walked 
over  to  the  manager,  and  said : 

"Pretty  good  show ;  should  have  had  a  bet- 
ter house ;  here's  ten  dollars  to  help  you  along," 
handing  the  amazed  manager  a  ten-dollar  bill, 
"but  it's  a  bad  night,  you'll  do  better  next  time ;" 
with  that  he  started  to  go.  As  soon  as  the  man- 
ager recovered  from  his  surprise  he  explained 
the  situation  to  him,  but  it  took  considerable  per- 
suading to  get  him  to  come  back  and  see  the 
show. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        59 
A  BEGGAR  BY  ACCIDENT. 

During  one  of  those  awfully  hot  spells  in  New 
York  City,  when  it  was  as  warm  at  midnight  as 
at  midday,  and  people  were  lying  on  the  roofs 
and  sidewalks  trying  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh 
air,  I  came  down  from  my  room  one  night  in 
my  shirt  sleeves  and  was  standing  on  the  cor- 
ner, leaning  against  a  lamp-post,  fanning  my- 
self with  my  straw  hat.  I  suppose,  being  so 
tired,  I  must  have  unconsciously  gone  into  a 
doze,  when  I  was  suddenly  awakened  by  the 
falling  of  something  into  my  hat.  Looking  up 
I  saw  that  a  benevolent  stranger  had  dropped 
a  nickel  into  it.  Realizing  the  situation  at  once 
I  called  after  him : 

"Here,  sir,  this  is  a  mistake!" 

Without  stopping,  the  stranger  waved  his 
hand  back  at  me,  saying: 

''That's  all  right,  old  man,  I  was  once  poor 
myself.  God  bless  you  in  your  poverty." 

I  have  really  never  been  "broke"  since,  for 
I  have  always  kept  that  nickel. 

ATTENDING  ONE  OF  MR.   CLEVELAND'S  RECEP- 
TIONS. 

It  was  while  playing  an  engagement  in  Wash- 
ington, during  President  Cleveland's  first  ad- 
ministration, that  my  friend,  Gerrold  Griffin,  and 
I  went  to  attend  one  of  the  president's  regular 
receptions.  Wre  arrived  at  the  White  House 
and  were  ushered  into  the  drawing-room,  where 


60        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

we  found  a  large  crowd  in  line,  which  we  joined 
with  much  misgiving,  for  we  noticed  that  every- 
body wore  a  grave  and  ministerial  air.  A  gen- 
tleman standing  by  the  President  was  announc- 
ing the  names  of  each  party  as  they  approached 
to  shake  Mr.  Cleveland's  hand;  we  soon  found 
out  to  our  greater  discomfiture  that  we  were 
in  the  midst  of  a  lot  of  Methodist  ministers  and 
their  wives,  whom  Mr.  Cleveland  was  giving  a 
special  reception.  Grif  was  badly  frightened, 
but  I  whispered  to  him  that  we  would  play  it 
out,  and  as  we  were  both  cleanly-shaven  we  put 
on  very  dignified  looks,  and  there  was  not  much 
trouble  in  passing  ourselves  off  as  members  of 
the  Conference.  The  striking  resemblance  be- 
tween actors  and  ministers  has  often  been  com- 
mented upon.  Well,  the  line  kept  getting  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  President.  The  gentleman  was 
announcing  the  Rev.  Mr.  So  and  So  and  Mrs. 
So  and  So  of  Illinois,  the  Rev.  Mr.  So  and  So 
and  Mrs.  So  and  So  of  Philadelphia,  and  so  on. 
The  President  himself  looked  very  solemn  and 
uncomfortable  and  shaking  hands  with  them  in 
a  most  impressive  and  awe-inspiring  manner; 
in  fact,  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  frozen  dig- 
nity enveloping  the  whole  crowd  that  made  them 
closely  resemble  a  procession  of  undertakers.  All 
this  time  Grif  and  I  were  drawing  nearer  to  the 
President;  at  last,  it  was  up  to  me.  The  an- 
nouncer, as  he  did  not  know  us,  expected  me  to 
hand  him  our  cards,  but  I  did  not.  I  merely 
grasped  the  outstretched  hand  of  the  President 
and  gave  him  a  most  cordial  shake,  and  said  to 
him  in  an  undertone: 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        61 

"Two  plain,  every-day  actors,  Mr.  President." 
Mr.  Cleveland's  face  broadened  into  a  smile 
as  he  replied  in  the  same  tone  of  voice : 
"I  am  awful  glad  to  see  you !" 


A  QUICK  BARGAIN. 

While  playing  at  McVickers'  Theatre  in  Chi- 
cago, Edwin  Thorne  came  there  to  fill  a  star  en- 
gagement in  a  piece  called  "The  Spy."  It  was 
a  miserably  bad  drama,  and  the  business  was 
also  bad — everything  on  a  par  with  the  play. 

Ed  was  a  noted  wit  and  a  great  practical  joker. 
He  soon  found  out  what  an  inferior  piece  of 
property  he  had  on  his  hands,  but  he  determined 
to  make  the  best  of  it.  The  great  climax  at 
the  end  of  the  third  act  was  where  Mr.  Thorne 
as  the  American  spy  escapes  across  a  log  over 
a  deep  chasm,  pursued  by  an  officer  and  detach- 
ment of  British  soldiers.  As  he  flung  the  log 
into  the  chasm  and  stood  defiantly  on  the  other 
side,  the  officer,  in  rage,  said : 

"A  hundred  pounds  for  the  spy,"  and  Ed's 
reply  was  to  hurl  back  some  heroic  words  com- 
prising allusions  to  George  Washington  and  the 
American  flag.  But  on  this  occasion,  when  the 
officer  shouted : 

"A  hundred  pounds  for  the  spy!"  Thome's 
answer  came  as  unexpected  and  as  quick  as  a 
flash: 

"It's  yours,  my  boy,  manuscript  and  parts!" 


62        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 


"DAHLBORN'S  DAIRY." 

I  remember  an  old  and  well-known  actor 
named  Waldemar  Dahlborn,  a  Dane  by  birth, 
who  was  toasted  and  petted  during  his  early 
days ;  and  yet  in  his  old  age  was  allowed  to  take 
his  last  sleep  in  the  garb  of  a  pauper. 

He  played  first  with  a  German  company  in 
the  old  Bowery  Theatre,  New  York,  was  after- 
ward a  member  of  the  original  Madison  Square 
company,  and  later  went  around  the  world  with 
Bandmann. 

He  fell  dead  a  few  years  ago  on  Clark  street, 
Chicago,  a  victim  of  starvation  and  neglect.  For 
many  years  he  kept  a  diary,  and  a  few  hours  be- 
fore his  death  he  wrote  his  last  entry  in  it  read- 
ing as  follows : 

December  6th,  dinner,  Madison  Street...  .10 

"  car  fare  to  the  theatre 10 

"  coffee  and  rolls,  Halsted  St.  .05 

7th,  dinner  10 

"  barber  05 

"  coffee  and  rolls 05 

8th,  dinner,  Madison  Street...  .10 

"  car  fare  to  the  theatre 10 

"  coffee  and  bread,  Waverly.  .03 

9th,  dinner,  Madison  Street...  .10 
loth,  dinner,  Clark  Street 05 

Fifteen  years  ago,  according  to  the  earlier 
pages  of  this  diary  he  ate  at  Delmonico's  in  New 
York,  where  it  was  his  custom  to  pay  from  two 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        63 

to  four  dollars  for  a  meal.  Later  pages  show 
where  at  times  he  was  on  the  highway  to  pros- 
perity. Then  we  turn  over  the  leaves  and  find 
him  out  of  engagement  and  subsisting  on  five 
cents  a  day.  An  entry  made  in  the  latter  part 
of  November  shows  where,  though  in  abject  pov- 
erty himself,  he  gave  five  cents  to  a  beggar. 
Here  are  a  few  more  entries  from  the  diary : 

Week  ending  Oct.  i6th,  total  expenditures. $1.74 
Week  ending  Oct.  25th,  total  expenditures.  1.17 
Week  ending  Oct.  3ist,  total  expenditures.  .60 
Week  ending  Nov.  6th,  total  expenditures.  .76 

Probably  the  most  pathetic  page  in  his  diary 
is  that  of  Christmas,  1896.  When  nearly  every 
person  in  the  big  city  of  Chicago  was  eating 
a  good  dinner  of  turkey  and  plum  pudding,  and 
had  their  friends  assembled  with  them  around 
the  festive  board,  the  old  actor's  book  shows 
that  his  dinner  cost  him  on  that  day  the  munifi- 
cent sum  of  five  cents. 


HE  EARNED,  BUT  NEVER  WORE  THE  WREATH  OF 
FAME. 

Speaking  of  the  early-day  actors  in  Califor- 
nia, I  vividly  remember  poor  Harry  Brown.  He 
was  the  companion  of  Edwin  Booth,  Jim  Starke, 
Bill  Mestayer,  and  all  the  celebrities  of  that  pe- 
riod— a  splendid  actor  but  never  pushed  him- 
self to  the  front,  so  that  to  the  general  public, 
outside  of  California,  he  was  little  known. 


64        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

Brown  was  very  fond  of  playing  the  fiddle, 
as  he  called  it,  and  this  accomplishment  proved 
an  useful  one,  for  in  the  provincial  theatres 
throughout  the  far  West,  in  those  days,  there 
was  no  orchestra.  It  was  a  common  occurrence 
for  Harry,  made  up  as  lago,  to  sit  behind  the 
curtain  and  play  an  overture  on  his  fiddle;  he 
would  also  give  the  cue  music  during  the  per- 
formance when  he  was  not  on  the  stage,  and 
many  a  time,  while  enacting  the  role  of  villain, 
when  he  was  killed,  he  would  fall  half-way  off 
the  stage,  that  is,  his  legs  exposed  to  the  au- 
dience, and  lying  in  that  position,  take  up  his 
fiddle  and  play  slow  dying  music  to  bring  the 
curtain  down. 

Poor  Harry,  his  ambition  never  rose  higher 
than  the  little  barn-storming  companies.  One 
day,  in  a  small  hotel  in  St.  Louis,  he  was  found 
dead,  sitting  in  a  chair  with  his  fiddle  by  his  side. 


How  THE  LANDLORD  GOT  EVEN. 

We  had  been  playing  one-night  stands  through 
the  State  of  Iowa,  living  and  sleeping  mostly 
on  the  train,  and  as  the  business  was  good  and 
salary  regular  we  had  been  patronizing  the  din- 
ing-car freely.  One  night  we  stopped  at  a  small 
town,  I  cannot  remember  the  name,  but  I  think 
it  was  Watcheer.  The  hotel  was  a  miserable  af- 
fair, and  the  boys  sat  around  the  stove  in  the 
office  comparing  it  to  the  dining-car  they  had 
been  living  in  during  the  last  few  days.  Now, 
the  landlord  was  a  remarkable  character;  he  sat 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        65 

there  and  listened  to  all  these  roasts;  he  heard 
nothing  but  dining-car  all  that  day,  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  but  it  never  phazed  him.  The 
next  morning  about  5  o'clock — an  ungodly  hour 
for  actors  to  get  up — he  walked  slowly  down 
the  long  hall  solemnly  ringing  a  large  bell  and 
calling  in  a  stentorian  voice : 

"Breakfast  is  now  ready  in  the  dining-car !" 


LEFT  BEHIND. 

As  we  had  to  leave  town  after  the  performance 
the  next  night,  the  manager  made  arrangements 
for  the  Limited  train  to  stop  and  take  us  on. 
We  hurried  through  the  performance  and  rushed 
down  to  the  depot  with  our  baggage.  The  night 
was  the  darkest  I  ever  saw ;  there  were  no  lights 
at  the  depot,  nothing  but  an  old  negro  with  a 
lantern.  We  saw  the  light  of  the  engine  as  the 
train  approached,  and  I  said  to  the  negro : 
"Uncle,  are  you  sure  that  train  will  stop  here  ?" 
"Oh,  yes,  sah,"  he  said,  "  'tis  shore  to  stop 
here." 

Just  about  that  time  the  train  shot  by  us  like 
a  streak,  leaving  us  standing  in  a  bewildered 
state  on  the  platform.  I  turned  to  my  colored 
friend : 

"Why,  Uncle,  that  train  did  not  stop!" 
"No,  sah,"  he  answered,  "it  didn't  even  hesi- 
tate!" 


66        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

A     "DAMON     AND     PYTHIAS"     PERFORMANCE 
THAT'S  NEVER  BEEN  EQUALLED. 

In  a  little  town  in  Indiana  the  Knights  of 
Pythias  were  making  a  brave  effort  to  build 
a  hall,  and  in  order  to  raise  the  necessary  funds, 
they  made  an  offer  to  our  manager  to  give  a 
performance  of  "Damon  and  Pythias."  The 
management,  knowing  that  the  play  would  draw 
a  large  house,  and  as  business  was  none  too 
good,  jumped  at  the  idea.  We  fortunately  had 
two  Damon  and  Pythias  books,  so  the  parts  were 
copied  and  we  went  to  work  to  rehearse  and 
study  them. 

As  for  dresses,  the  ladies  procured  some  white 
cotton  cloth  which  they  made  into  togas,  trim- 
ming them  most  beautifully  with  red  calico.  Soap 
boxes  covered  with  white  cloth  made  the  Senate 
seats.  It  was  a  remarkable  performance,  both 
the  man  playing  Damon  and  the  one  playing 
Pythias  were  Irishmen,  and  spoke  with  a  pro- 
nounced brogue. 

As  we  did  not  have  men  enough  for  the  sen- 
ate scene  two  of  the  ladies  were  required  to  put 
on  togas  and  "play  men"  for  a  while.  Now, 
these  two  ladies  were  married,  Mrs.  M.  and 
Mrs.  R.,  and  both  had  little  babies,  whom  they 
used  to  bring  to  the  theatre,  as  they  could  not 
leave  them  at  home,  put  them  to  sleep  and  tuck 
them  away  in  their  theatre  trunks. 

Well,  the  house  was  packed  that  evening,  and 
everything  was  going  splendidly  until  we  came 
to  the  senate  scene,  and  Damon  was  in  the  midst 
of  his  great  speech, — 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        67 

"Can  ye  but  dig  your  own  dark  graves,  creep 
into  them  and  die?" 

One  of  the  senators  should  have  said: 

"I  have  not  sanctioned  it," 
and  another  senator : 

"Nor  I," 
and  another  still : 

"Nor  I." 

But  the  senators  had  failed  to  respond ;  all 
they  heard  was  the  unmistakable  cry  of  a  baby ; 
it  grew  louder  and  more  emphatic  each  minute, 
thus  causing  much  uneasiness  among  the  female 
senators ;  Damon,  nothing  daunted,  went  on  with 
his  lines : 

"Oh,  thanks  for  these  few  small  voices,  but 
alas,  how  lonely  do  they  sound " 

The  baby  on  the  other  side,  awakened  by  the 
cry,  set  up  an  awful  yell,  and  Mrs.  R.,  whose 
mother-love  was  stronger  than  her  histrionic  am- 
bitions, made  a  hasty  and  undignified  exit,  just 
as  Damon  was  saying : 

"Do  you  not  all  start  up  at  once  and  cry  out 
Liberty !  or  are  you  bound  in  fetters  of  mind 
that  you  sit  as  if  you  were  yourselves  incorpo- 
rate with  the  marble?" 

When  he  came  to  the  line : 

"Old  men  that  have  been  grandsires,  women 

with  their  children "  the  first  baby,  waxing 

impatient  at  his  mother's  indifference  to  his 
wants,  grew  louder  and  more  energetic  in  his 
demands ;  "and  these  old  men  who  lift  their 
shivering  voices  and  palsied  hands,  and  those 
affrighted  mothers "  here  Damon  turned  and 


68        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

looked  the  remaining  female  senator  squarely  in 
the  face: 

"Who  hold  their  innocent  infants  forth  and 

ask "  Baby  Number  One  was  giving  out 

cries  that  were  really  deafening.  As  Damon 
turned  once  more  to  address  the  senators  he 
saw,  gliding  like  a  shadow  through  the  east 
wing,  the  rapidly-disappearing  figure  of  the 
Grecian  senator,  Mrs.  M.  Instead  of  saying : 

"Could  you  make  slaves  of  them?"  shaking 
his  fist  at  the  vanishing  form,  he  shouted : 

"What  the  devil  did  you  bring  it  for?" 

Philistius,  though,  rose  beautifully  to  the  oc- 
casion ;  with  grave  dignity  he  ended  the  scene : 

"As  there  is  not  a  quorum  present  and  we  have 
no  way  of  stopping  the  yells  of  the  populace,  I 
hereby  dissolve  the  senate  !" 


WAS  WILLING  TO  HELP  HIM  MAKE  A  HIT. 

We  were  playing  "Damon  and  Pythias"  in 
Minneapolis.  Theodore  Hamilton  was  playing 
Damon,  and  a  very  good  one  he  was.  We  had 
a  man  in  the  company  very  small  in  size  but 
possessed  of  a  surprisingly  large  voice ;  his  am- 
bition was  to  play  leads,  but  he  hardly  ever  got 
anything  but  small  bits.  On  this  occasion  he 
was  cast  as  Lucullus.  Now,  Lucullus  is  Damon's 
slave,  who,  when  he  finds  that  Damon  is  going 
back  to  give  himself  up  to  die  for  Pythias,  kills 
his  master's  horse  to  keep  him  from  going;  and 
when  Damon  rushes  on  and  says: 

"My  horse,  slave,  my  horse!" 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        69 

Lucullus  replies : 

"Forgive  me,  noble  master,  for  I  slew  your 
horse !" 

Then  Damon  waxes  wroth,  seizes  Lucullus 
by  the  neck  and  pounds  him  about  the  stage. 
On  this  occasion  Mr.  Hamilton  ended  by  giving 
him  a  toss  which  threw  him  off  into  the  entrance. 
The  young  fellow  took  it  all  good-naturedly. 
After  the  performance  was  over  and  while  we 
were  all  assembled  in  the  cafe,  Hamilton  said: 

"Young  man,  do  you  know  what  I  am  going 
to  do  with  you  to-morrow  night?" 

"No,  Mr.  Hamilton,"  he  replied,  "what  are 
you  going  to  do  with  me?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  am  going  to  wipe  the  stage  up 
with  you  and  when  I  am  through  I  am  going 
to  throw  you  out  into  the  back  alley." 

Mr.  Hamilton  thought  this  would  completely 
terrify  the  young  aspirant,  but  instead  he  only 
smiled  and  said : 

"Well,  Mr.  Hamilton,  I  suppose  you  will  have 
to  do  something  to  make  a  hit  in  that  part!" 

THE  DONKEY,  ALSO,  RECEIVED  A  PRESS  NOTICE. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  night  of  our  pro- 
duction of  "Ali  Baba ;  or.  The  Forty  Thieves."  I 
was  playing  the  poor  woodchopper ;  and  my  com- 
panion was  a  diminutive  donkey  which  was  very 
well  known  in  Minneapolis,  as  for  years  he  had 
dragged  a  little  cart  around  the  city,  but  he  had 
never  been  on  the  stage — worse  luck  to  him. 
When  I  made  my  entrance  and  endeavored  to 
lead  the  donkey  on  he  was  suddenly  seized  with 


70        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

stage  fright  and  refused  to  move.  The  young 
man  who  was  with  me  assisted  in  pulling  at  the 
bridle  rein.  We  tugged  away  with  all  our 
strength,  while  the  stage  hands  from  behind 
attacked  him  with  hammers  and  stage  braces. 
In  the  midst  of  it  all  he  quietly,  without  giving 
us  due  notice,  walked  out  on  the  stage,  leaving 
my  friend  and  myself  lying  flat  on  our  backs, 
caused  by  the  relaxation  of  the  bridle.  Though 
mortifying  to  us  it  was  great  fun  for  the  au- 
dience. When  the  short  scene  was  about  over 
my  friend  said  to  me  in  a  whisper: 

"John,  how  are  we  going  to  get  him  off?" 

I  said: 

"We'll  carry  him,"  and  sure  enough  we  did. 
We  picked  him  up  bodily  and  carried  him  off  the 
stage. 

The  next  morning  one  of  the  daily  papers 
kindly  remarked  that  the  hits  of  the  play  were 
made  by  John  Burton  and  another  Jack-ass." 


"BOOTS." 

Little  did  I  think  when  I  saw  Mr.  Florence 
in  1864  that  I  would  ever  be  a  member  of  that 
gentleman's  company,  yet  I  look  back  with  pleas- 
ure over  the  two  seasons  I  spent  with  him  and 
his  charming  wife.  Dear  genial  Billy  Florence ! 
who  does  not  remember  him  as  "Bardwell  Slote" 
in  "The  Mighty  Dollar"? 

Always  ready  with  a  joke  and  just  as  ready 
to  take  one,  the  soul  of  wit  and  the  soul  of  honor. 
Like  a  great  many  artists  he  was  highly  sen- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        71 

sitive  to  the  slightest  iscrse  or  interruption  dur- 
ing- his  performance,  au<$  having  played  the  part 
so  long  the  least  little  thing  would  throw  him 
off  his  lines.  I  think  it  was  in  Erie,  Pennsyl- 
vania, I  was  playing  a  very  important  scene  with 
him.  All  of  a  sudden  he  stopped  in  the  mid- 
dle of  his  speech,  his  eye  seemed  fixed  upon  some 
object  far  away  in  the  gallery.  As  soon  as  I 
realized  that  he  had  stopped  I  gave  him  the  line, 
as  I  was  familiar  with  the  entire  play,  but  with- 
out looking  at  me  at  all,  he  merely  said : 
"Boots !" 

I  gave  him  the  line  again,  and  once  more  he 
said : 
"Boots !" 

I  was  at  a  loss  to  know  what  he  meant,  when 
it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  "Governor,"  as 
we  all  called  him,  had  gone  mad,  so  I  said  to 
him  in  a  quiet  tone : 

"What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Florence?" 
He  only  said : 
"Boots !" 

But  this  time  he  pointed  with  his  finger 
straight  ahead ;  my  eyes  following  the  direction 
indicated  discovered  a  large  pair  of  boots  hang- 
ing over  the  rail  of  the  gallery ;  then  he  said 
to  me : 

"I  cannot  go  on,  John,  until  those  boots  are 
removed  from  sight ;"  so  I  was  obliged  to  leave 
the  stage,  send  a  man  to  the  front  of  the  house, 
and  that  man  had  to  find  an  officer,  and  the  of- 
ficer had  to  go  up  into  the  gallery  and  remove 
that  awful  pair  of  feet  that  were  incased  in  those 
boots.  All  this  time  Mr.  Florence  stood  with- 


72        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

out  moving,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  boots,  but  as 
soon  as  .he  saw  them  disappear  a  look  of  intense 
satisfaction  spread  over  his  face,  the  lines  came 
back  to  him,  and  the  play  went  on. 


"P.  D.  Q." 

Those  who  have  seen  "The  Mighty  Dollar" 
will  remember  that  one  of  the  great  hits  of  the 
play  was  the  way  in  which  Mr.  Florence  abbre- 
viated his  words,  that  is,  he  would  use  the  first 
letter  of  three  or  four  words,  and  then  quietly 
explain  it;  "p.  d.  q.,"  one  of  his  contractions, 
soon  became  a  common  by-word  in  those  days. 

We  were  playing  in  a  little  town  in  Pennsyl- 
vania. Our  orchestra  consisted  of  a  piano  and 
a  violin ;  the  pianist  was  a  resident  of  the  town. 
a  bright  young  lady  whom  our  leader  admired 
very  much.  During  the  evening  when  he  was 
not  playing  he  was  endeavoring  to  be  polite  to 
the  young  lady  pianist  by  explaining  to  her  the 
little  points  of  the  play;  he  had  been  so  long 
with  Mr.  Florence  that  he  knew  the  piece  back- 
wards. Unfortunately,  the  leader  was  fright- 
fully deaf,  and  like  all  people  so  afflicted,  spoke 
in  a  high-pitched  voice.  When  Mr.  Florence 
said  "p.  d.  q.,"  the  old  man  leaned  over  and 
shouted  in  the  ear  of  the  young  lady: 

"Pretty  damn  quick !" 

The  young  lady  thinking  he  wanted  her  to 
play,  commenced  to  pound  the  piano  as  if  her 
life  depended  upon  it,  the  leader  got  furiously 
red  in  the  face  and  endeavored  to  stop  her,  but 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        73 

he  was  too  late,  the  audience  was  roaring,  and 
Florence  and  the  rest  of  us  were  so  conyulsed 
with  laughter  that  the  play  had  to  stop  for  sev- 
eral minutes  before  we  could  proceed. 


FLORENCE'S  QUICK  WIT. 

One  of  the  actors  in  Mr.  Florence's  company 
being  sick  one  night,  the  young  man  having 
charge  of  the  properties  went  on  for  his  part. 
In  the  scene  where  all  the  guests  come  off  the 
steamboat  and  Mr.  Florence  introduces  them,  he 
took  this  young  man  by  the  arm  and  led  him 
down  to  the  front,  saying  as  he  did  so: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  this  is  a  great  man, 
a  man  of  property "  then  quietly  in  an  un- 
dertone that  broke  us  all  up  on  the  stage — "A 
property  man !" 


MY  VALENTINE. 

I  have  always  been  very  fond  of  children,  and 
the  little  ones  I  have  come  in  contact  with  in  and 
out  of  the  profession  have  ever  been  a  source 
of  keen  delight  to  me,  with  their  funny  little 
sayings  and  doings. 

Several  years  ago  a  little  six-year-old  sent  me 
a  valentine ;  on  the  inside  of  it  was  written  in 
a  baby  hand : 

"My  dear  Mr.  Burton,  if  you  don't  get  this, 
please  let  me  know." 


74        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 


COULDN'T  FOOL  HIM. 

Very  often  when  our  company  is  travelling 
and  a  child  is  required  in  a  play,  not  having  one 
as  a  member  of  the  company,  we  are  obliged 
to  borrow  one,  so  to  speak,  and  it  is  the  stage 
manager's  duty  to  look  up  a  smart  youngster 
and  instruct  him  in  the  part.  I  remember  I  was 
playing  Farmer  Allen  in  a  play  called  "Dora." 
In  the  last  act  the  old  man  has  a  very  impres- 
sive scene  with  the  little  boy,  who  is  supposed 
to  be  his  grandson.  If  I  could  get  the  little  fel- 
low to  say  a  line  or  two  I  was  content.  I  used 
to  say  to  him : 

"How  old  are  you,  my  little  man  ?"  and  he  was 
supposed  to  reply : 

"I'se  four  years  old." 

Then  I  would  say  to  him : 

"Who  is  your  father,  my  little  man?"  and  he 
was  instructed  to  merely  hang  his  head  and  say 
nothing. 

Then  I  would  add : 

"Poor  little  fellow,  his  father  is  dead." 

Now,  on  this  occasion  we  had  an  exceedingly 
bright  boy  who  spoke  his  lines,  "I'se  four  years 
old,"  so  loud  you  could  have  heard  them  in  the 
next  town.  But  when  I  said,  "Poor  little  fel- 
low, his  father  is  dead,"  he  commenced  to  cry, 
and  pointing  to  a  large  man  in  the  orchestra 
said: 

"No,  he  isn't,  there  he  is  playing  the  big  fid- 
dle!" 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        75 


"TRICKS  IN  ALL  TRADES." 

We  were  playing  "East  Lynne"  at  a  matinee  in 
Knoxville,  Tennessee.  The  stage  manager  had 
neglected  to  provide  a  child  to  play  "Little  Wil- 
lie," so,  at  the  last  moment,  we  had  to  take  the 
only  available  one  we  could  find  about  the  thea- 
tre. We  dressed  him  in  a  clean,  white  night- 
gown and  placed  him  between  the  snowy  sheets 
of  the  little  bed.  As  ever  one  knows,  who  has 
seen  "East  Lynne,"  Little  Willie  is  supposed  to 
be  dying  of  consumption,  and  the  scene  between 
Madame  Vine  and  the  child  is  a  most  pathetic 
one.  As  this  Little  Willie  could  not  speak  the 
lines  he  was  tucked  up  in  the  bed  so  that  the  au- 
dience could  not  see  anything  but  that  there  was 
a  figure  there.  One  of  the  ladies  of  the  com- 
pany was  placed  behind  the  bed  to  read  the  lines 
of  the  child,  imitating  the  baby  voice.  Every- 
thing went  smoothly,  the  audience  was  none  the 
wiser  until  Mr.  Carlyle  entered  to  pay  a  visit 
to  his  sick  child,  and  after  greeting  Madame 
Vine,  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed ;  but  this 
Mr.  Carlyle,  being  a  very  large  man,  weighing 
something  over  two  hundred  pounds,  caused  the 
bed  to  break  down,  thereby  producing  one  of 
the  most  ludicrous  scenes  I  have  ever  witnessed 
on  the  stage.  As  the  bed  came  down  the  un- 
derstudy was  discovered  lying  on  her  stomach 
with  a  book  in  her  hands ;  Little  Willie  fell  out  of 
bed,  struck  the  floor,  and  rolled  nearly  down  to 
the  footlights ;  and  the  audience  instead  of  seeing 
an  ethereal,  delicate  child  of  the  Little  Willie 


76        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

type  beheld  a  chubby  pickaninny,  with  an  expan- 
sive grin  upon  his  face,  looking  as  if  he  had  just 
spied  a  big  watermelon.  He  gathered  his  night- 
dress up  to  his  knees  and  ran  off  the  stage  amid 
the  yells  and  screams  of  the  audience.  It  was 
no  use,  the  play  ended  right  there. 


WHAT  GOD  SAID  TO  HER. 

The  late  Sol  Smith  Russell  told  me  a  very 
amusing  story  of  his  little  girl.  Her  mother, 
an  intensely  religious  woman,  had  adopted  an 
original  method  of  correcting  the  children. 
Whenever  any  of  them  did  wrong  she  imme- 
diately sent  them  upstairs  and  made  them  say 
a  little  prayer  to  God,  asking  his  forgiveness  for 
the  offense.  Miss  Alice  being  disobedient  one 
day,  was  sent  upstairs  to  pay  the  penalty.  When 
she  returned  her  mother  asked  her : 

"Well,  Alice,  did  you  pray  God  to  forgive 
you?"  and  Alice,  with  a  saucy  look  in  her  eyes 
— which  she  probably  inherited  from  her  illus- 
trious father — replied : 

"Yes,  mother,  and  what  do  you  think  God 
said  to  me?" 

Mrs.  Russell  was  greatly  astonished  at  this  re- 
mark, but  managed  to  ask  her  what  He  had  said 
to  her. 

"He  said,"  replied  the  child,  "'Why,  Alice 
Russell,  you've  got  an  awful  nerve  to  take  up  so 
much  of  my  time  when  there  are  so  many  other 
little  girls  in  Minneapolis  much  worse  than 
you.' " 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        77 


A  YOUNG  CRITIC. 

A  few  months  ago  it  was  my  pleasure  to  meet 
in  her  home  little  Blythe  Shores,  a  bright,  en- 
tertaining maiden  of  seven  years.  Blythe  is  ex- 
ceedingly fond  of  music,  and  attended  an  Or- 
pheum  matinee  recently  to  hear  a  noted  tenor. 
Upon  returning  home  her  big  sister  asked  her 
how  she  liked  him. 

"Oh,"  she  replied,  "his  singing  was  beauti- 
ful, but  he  had  such  a  discouraging  face!" 


GETTING  ACQUAINTED. 

I  was  invited  to  have  luncheon  with  some 
friends  not  long  since,  and  during  the  afternoon 
experienced  an  odd  meeting  with  the  neighbor's 
small  boy.  The  young  lad,  having  learned  that 
I  was  an  actor,  and  thinking  it  an  unusual  oc- 
currence for  actors  to  be  seen  off  the  stage  and 
in  broad  daylight,  came  over  to  make  a  quiet 
study  of  one. 

He  sat  down  in  front  of  me  in  awed  silence, 
kept  his  eye  on  me  fully  ten  minutes,  said  "Good- 
bye" in  a  timid  little  voice,  and  walked  solemnly 
out  of  the  room.  In  a  few  minutes  he  returned 
with  a  complete  change  in  dress ;  he  sat  down 
again,  stayed  the  limited  ten  minutes,  said  "Good- 
bye," and  went  out  for  another  "change."  He 
was  evidently  bent  upon  impressing  me  with  the 
size  of  his  wardrobe.  He  made  at  least  a  dozen 
round  trips  between  the  two  houses,  each  time 


78        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

appearing  with  something  different  on ;  I  think 
he  put  on  all  the  clothes  he  had  and  then  ex- 
hausted his  brother's  supply.  At  last  he  came 
in  clad  in  a  blue  sweater ;  he  sat  down  in  front 
of  me  for  the  last  time — it  was  getting  late  and 
I  was  preparing  to  leave.  As  I  turned  to  my 
hostess  to  express  my  thanks  for  her  hospital- 
ity, I  heard  some  one  just  behind  me  say  "Good- 
bye." I  "about-faced"  in  time  to  see  my  queer 
little  friend  walking  slowly  out  of  the  room.  The 
last  thing  I  saw  as  I  left  the  house  was  a  small 
boy  in  a  blue  sweater  hanging  on  to  the  gate, 
and  the  evening  breeze  wafted  to  my  ear  his 
farewell  message,  "Good-bye." 


"UNCLE"  DICK  SUTTON". 

"Uncle"  Dick  Sutton,  for  some  years  lessee  and 
manager  of  Button's  Family  Theatre,  and  Sut- 
ton's  Broadway  Theatre,  in  Butte,  Montana,  is 
a  character  quite  unique  among  American  the- 
atrical managers.  He  has  been  practically  ex- 
communicated by  the  congress  of  managerial  car- 
dinals of  the  present-day  method  of  transacting 
theatrical  business.  Instead  of  paying  by 
means  of  bank  checks,  bills  that  have  been  in- 
curred, he  usually  carries  with  him  a  roll  of  cur- 
rency bigger  than  an  ordinary  man's  wrist.  This 
roll  he  carries  in  his  back  pocket,  in  the  same 
pocket  in  which  he  usually  carries  smoking  and 
chewing  tpbacco,  chewing-gum,  toothpicks,  jack- 
knives,  and  important  contracts.  He  is  the  ex- 
High  Priest  of  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  perform- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        79 

ances,  and  a  Thirty-third  degree-er  in  the  mat- 
ter of  giving  semi-dramatic  entertainments,  or 
rather  dramatic  performances  that  are  semi- 
entertaining,  in  towns  that  are  usually  re- 
ferred to  in  theatrical  parlance  as  "tanks." 
In  addition  to  running  the  theatres,  he 
always  has  on  the  road  a  cheap  rep- 
ertoire company,  the  total  expense  of  which  is 
under  forty  dollars  a  day,  and  he  arranges  his 
dates  so  that  his  company  is  sure  to  make  rail- 
road connections  with  freight  trains.  He  boasts 
the  fact  that  he  arranges  his  railroad  schedules 
almost  wholly  with  freight  time-tables.  This 
company  travels  in  a  muchly-advertised  special 
car  of  the  vintage  of  1871.  The  highest-priced 
member  of  his  company  is  the  advance  agent,  who 
gets  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  Aside  from  taking 
pride  in  presenting  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  Mr. 
Sutton  still  retains  an  unquenchable  glory  in  a 
tall  silk  hat,  and  an  ebony  cane  with  a  massive 
gold  head.  When  "Uncle  Dick"  is  arrayed  in 
his  best  impresario  clothes — the  tall  hat,  the  big 
gold-headed  cane,  a  cigar  no  larger  than  a  man's 
little  finger  in  his  mouth,  and  a  long  Chinchilla 
overcoat  with  an  immense  fur  collar,  complete 
the  picture.  He  has  several  oil  paintings  of 
himself  in  this  uniform  of  the  cross-roads  man- 
ager. As  the  capstone  to  this  get-up,  he  never 
fails  to  wear  an  eight-caret  yellow  diamond, 
glued  into  a  shirt  front  immaculate  only  upon 
rare  occasions.  Peculiar  in  dress,  he  is  never- 
theless generous  to  a  fault,  and  charitable  to  all 
those  who  seek  his  aid.  Pie  knows  *the  tall  hat, 
the  big  diamond,  the  fur-collared  coat,  and  gold- 


80        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

headed  cane  are  not  pertinently  appropriate  to 
the  suave,  genteel  methods  of  to-day,  but  he  says 
the  ruralites  expect  that  style  of  dress  in  a  the- 
atrical manager,  and  "he's  seen  his  duty  and 
done  it." 

In  his  early  experience  as  an  "Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin"  manager,  before  he  had  arrived  at  the 
dignity  of  paying  regular  salaries,  six  and  eight 
per,  he  had  a  lady  in  the  company  who  played 
the  role  of  Ophelia ;  she  had  a  son  who,  although 
he  was  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  of  age,  was  of 
a  very  diminutive  stature,  and  she  used  to  dress 
him  up  with  golden  ringlets,  and  he  would  play 
Little  Eva.  One  day  she  went  to  Uncle  Dick 
with  a  request  for  fifteen  cents. 

"What  for?"  asked  Uncle  Dick  in  an  injured 
tone. 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  replied  the  lady, 
"Willie  has  got  to  be  shaved  or  he  can't  play 
Eva  to-night." 

"Can't  help  it,"  said  Uncle  Dick,  "no  money 
in  sight  to-day." 

"Very  well,"  retorted  the  lady  in  a  loud  and 
angry  voice.  "You  will  either  have  Willie 
shaved  or  change  the  bill  to  'Ingomar' !" 


On  one  occasion  the  landlord  of  a  country  ho- 
tel was  ushering  Uncle  Dick  through  the  house, 
showing  him  the  rooms  he  had  reserved  for  the 
company,  when  they  came  to  a  large  room  with 
eight  beds  in  it. 

"This,"  gaid  the  landlord,  "is  for  the  married 
folks." 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        81 

"Great  heavens !"  exclaimed  Uncle  Dick,  "the 
married  people  can't  all  sleep  in  the  same  room." 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  landlord, 
"don't  they  speak  to  each  other?" 


Uncle  Dick's  aggregation  of  Uncle  Thomas 
was  billed  to  play  in  a  little  town  where  there 
was  a  brand  new  opera  house.  This  opera  house 
was  the  pride  of  the  owner,  who  also  possessed 
a  saw-mill,  and  he  used  to  tell  everybody  how 
he  had  built  the  opera  house  out  of  the  lumber 
he  himself  had  sawed.  When  he  first  started 
this  mill  he  wrote  to  a  firm  in  San  Francisco  for 
prices  on  large  buzz-saws.  He  received  a  let- 
ter in  return  telling  him  that  the  size  he  wished 
would  cost  Five  Hundred  Dollars.  "That's  a 
good  bargain,"  thought  the  old  man,  and  he  im- 
mediately wired  the  San  Francisco  office  to  ship 
the  saw  at  that  price.  Five  Hundred  Dollars.  As 
soon  as  the  firm  received  his  telegram  they  real- 
ized that  a  mistake  had  been  made,  and  looking 
up  the  copy  of  their  letter,  discovered  that  the 
typewriter  had  left  off  a  cipher,  making  it  $500, 
when  it  should  have  been  $5,000.  They  wrote 
him  in  a  polite  manner  telling  him  of  the  error 
and  saying  that  if  he  wished  the  saw  at  their 
price,  $5,000,  they  would  be  most  happy  to  ship 
it  at  once.  The  old  gentleman's  answer  to  this 
was  brief  and  to  the  point : 

"If  I  had  $5,000,  what  in  hell  would  I  want 
with  a  saw-mill?" 

When  Mr.  Sutton's  company  arrived  in  town 
they  discovered  there  were  no  lithographs  or 


82        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

bills  up,  and  this  unpardonable  oversight  so  an- 
gered the  manager  that  he  hastened  to  find  the 
owner  of  the  opera  house.  As  he  was  not  at  the 
theatre  Uncle  Dick  was  directed  to  the  saw-mill, 
where  he  found  him  busy  at  work. 

"Are  you  the  owner  of  this  opera  house?" 
asked  Uncle  Dick. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  built  that  house  out  of  the  boards 
I  sawed  right  here  in  this  mill." 

"Well,  you  can  keep  your  opera  house  and 
your  mill.  I  don't  play  here  to-night,  I  am  go- 
ing on  to  the  next  town." 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  bewildered 
manager. 

"Matter!"  snorted  Uncle  Dick,  "why,  what 
did  you  do  with  all  those  lithographs  I  sent  you 
to  put  up?" 

"Them  what?"  asked  the  manager. 

"Lithographs !  lithographs !"  yelled  Uncle 
Dick. 

"Oh,  you  mean  them  colored  pictures?" 

"Yes,  them  colored  pictures,"  replied  Uncle 
Dick,  sarcastically. 

"Well,"  said  the  manager  with  a  patronizing 
smile,  "I  sent  them  around  to  all  the  houses  and 
had  them  hung  up  in  the  parlors.  Mighty  nice 
pictures  they  were !" 

As  this  was  rather  a  new  way  of  "lithograph- 
ing," it  completely  staggered  Uncle  Dick,  so  he 
told  the  man  he  would  go  uptown  and  think  it 
over.  On  the  way  back  he  met  a  lot  of  men, 
carrying  chairs,  and  asked  what  they  were  go- 
ing to  do  with  them. 

"Why,"  said  one  of  the  men,  "we  are  carry- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        83 

ing  them  over  to  the  opera  house ;  you  see  we 
need  a  lot  of  extra  seats  as  the  house  has  all 
been  sold  for  the  last  three  days." 

Now,  Uncle  Dick  weighs  over  two  hundred  and 
has  very  short  legs,  but  a  professional  sprinter 
never  made  the  time  he  did  getting  back  to  that 
saw-mill  manager  and  telling  him  "it  was  all 
right,  they  would  play  there  that  night." 


It  was  a  risky  thing  to  play  "Uncle  Tom"  in 
the  South  in  those  days,  but  still  the  people 
came  to  see  it  out  of  mere  curiosity,  and  Uncle 
Dick  was  doing  an  enormous  business ;  but  there 
was  one  manager  in  a  town  in  which  he  wanted 
to  play  who  refused  to  play  him  on  the  terms  he 
was  getting  elsewhere.  Letters  did  no  good  so 
Uncle  Dick  went  to  see  him  personally.  The 
manager  was  very  impudent  in  spite  of  Button's 
telling  him  of  the  big  show  he  had  and  of  the 
tremendous  business  they  were  doing.  His  un- 
varying answer  was : 

"If  you  play  here,  you  will  play  on  my  terms, 
Mr.  Sutton,"  and  as  Uncle  Dick  could  not  afford 
to  go  by  that  town  he  reluctantly  accepted  the 
terms.  Just  as  he  was  going  out  of  the  office 
the  manager  said : 

"Now,  see  here,  I  want  all  of  this  'Uncle 
Tom'  show ;  you  have  six  acts,  mind,  you  don't 
leave  any  of  them  out !" 

"All  right,"  said  Uncle  Dick,  "you  shall  have 
them,"  and  they  added  that  stipulation  to  the 
contract. 

On  the  night  of  the  show    the    house    was 


84        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

packed,  over  half  the  people  there  had  never  seen 
"Uncle  Tom"  before,  and  none  of  them  as  it 
was  played  that  night;  they  played  the  first  act, 
then  the  last  one,  the  fourth  act,  then  the  sec- 
ond one;  in  fact,  they  played  "Uncle  Tom"  up- 
side down ;  neither  the  manager  nor  the  au- 
dience detected  anything  wrong,  but  Uncle  Dick 
had  his  revenge  for  being  compelled  to  play  at 
reduced  terms. 


A  QUEER  CONCEIT. 

The  young  lady  who  played  "Topsy"  in  Uncle 
Dick  Button's  company  was  much  infatuated 
with  her  own  acting.  One  night  after  she  had 
made  her  exit  from  the  scene  Uncle  Dick  was 
greatly  surprised  to  see  her  standing  against  the 
wall  clapping  her  knee  with  her  hands  and  laugh- 
ing in  an  uproarious  manner. 

Thinking  she  was  having  some  kind  of  a  nerv- 
ous fit  Mr.  Sutton  approached  her  and  asked : 

"What's  the  matter,  young  woman?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  help  it,"  she  giggled,  "I  am  so 
funny !" 


CHARLIE  FORBES  AND  His  "HANDS." 

Another  "Uncle  Tom"  manager  who  was  well 
known  in  the  far  West  during  the  early  '8o's 
was  Charlie  Forbes,  a  strikingly  picturesque 
character.  He  used  to  sit  at  the  door  of  the  the- 
atre, pat  all  the  little  children  on  the  head  as 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        85 

they  went  in,  and  give  them  pop-corn  and  candy. 

Once  or  twice  a  year  he  used  to  appear  in  Chi- 
cago; whenever  a  friend  met  him  and  said: 

"Hello,  Charlie,  what  are  you  doing  in  town?" 
he  would  alway  reply: 

"Oh,  just  looking  for  a  few  hands." 

He  always  designated  his  actors  as  "hands." 
He  would  get  hold  of  a  man,  offer  him  six  dol- 
lars a  week,  and  tell  him  of  all  the  money  he 
could  save: 

"We  give  a  matinee  every  day  and  travel  the 
rest  of  the  time — no  chance  to  spend  your  money, 
my  boy." 

He  had  one  man  with  him  who  played  Uncle 
Tom,  an  old  fellow  named  Archer,  who  they  say 
never  washed  the  cork  off  his  face  the  whole 
season. 

His  advance  agent  was  Wash  Blodgett.  Every 
one  in  the  West  knew  Wash ;  he  was  in  a  class 
all  by  himself ;  deaf  as  a  post  but  one  of  the  wit- 
tiest and  best  informed  men  that  ever  travelled 
ahead  of  a  show.  He  knew  every  city,  town, 
and  water  tank  from  Maine  to  California.  On 
one  occasion  a  real  estate  agent  on  Clark  street, 
Chicago,  rushed  out  of  his  office  and  grabbed 
Wash  as  he  was  walking  along  the  sidewalk, 
saying  to  him : 

"Wash,  where  is  such  and  such  a  place?" 
Wash  stopped  and  thought  for  a  few  moments, 
scratched  his  head,  and  said : 

"I  never  heard  of  it." 

"Then,"  said  the  agent,  "there  is  no  such 
place  in  the  world." 


86        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 


ONE  WAY  OF  KEEPING  A  SECRET. 

When  I  was  with  "The  Black  Crook,"  Wash 
having  left  Forbes,  joined  our  company  at  Dal- 
las, Texas.  We  had  a  very  large  house  that 
night,  and  after  the  performance  I  met  Wash  in 
the  lobby  of  the  hotel ;  I  was  the  only  one  of 
the  company  whom  he  knew  personally,  and 
wishing  to  be  sociable,  I  said : 

"Big  house,  Wash." 

"Great,"  he  yelled  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  as 
all  deaf  men  do,  causing  everybody  in  the  office 
to  look  up.  After  a  pause  of  a  few  moments 
he  said,  in  the  same  loud  tones : 

"John,  don't  you  tell  any  of  these  folks  I 
was  with  Forbes." 


A  GIVE-AWAY. 

In  St.  Paul,  Minnesota,  the  dressing-rooms  in 
the  old  Grand  Opera  House  were  on  one  corri- 
dor and  all  open  on  top.  After  the  show  Wash 
came  along  the  corridor  looking  for  me.  He 
was  calling  out  at  every  step,  in  his  usual  high- 
sounding  voice : 

"Where's  Burton?     Where's   Burton?" 

Suspecting  that  he  would  sooner  or  later  get 
his  foot  into  it,  I  said : 

"Here  I  am,  Wash,  what  is  it?" 

He  hollowed  back  to  me : 

"Want  to  go  out  with  me  to-night,  John?  I 
have  been  on  the  gallery  door." 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        87 

We  had  an  immense  house  that  night,  and  the 
"scoop-in"  had  been  a  rich  bit  of  business  for 
Wash.  This  came  very  nearly  costing  Wash  his 
job,  as  one  of  the  managers  of  the  company  was 
dressing  with  me  and  heard  the  whole  thing; 
but  I  managed  to  square  it  for  him,  and  there- 
after when  Wash  came  around  he  talked  with 
his  hands. 


WASH'S  WAY  OF  PUTTING  UP  POSTERS. 

When  Wash  Blodgett  was  head  of  the  Geor- 
gia Minstrels  he  used  to  have  great  sport  put- 
ting up  his  yellow  bills  in  the  windows ;  for  in- 
stance, he  would  go  into  a  millinery  shop,  show 
these  big  negro  heads  on  yellow  paper  and  ask 
to  be  allowed  to  put  one  up.  The  milliner  would 
invariably  say  "No,"  but  Wash  would  go  right 
on  putting  it  up  and  delivering  an  oration  some- 
thing like  this : 

"All  right,  thank  you.  Nice  weather.  Do 
good  business?"  and  all  the  time  the  woman 
would  be  yelling: 

"No,  no,  you  cannot  put  it  up !" 

Wash,  when  he  had  finished,  would  point  at 
the  bill  in  admiration  and  say : 

"Fine  picture,  everybody  that  stops  to  look 
at  it  will  come  in  and  buy  a  bonnet.  Good- 
day."  And  nine  times  out  of  ten,  through  his 
cunning,  Wash's  pictures  were  allowed  to  stay. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 


"You  DON'T  KNOW  WHAT  You  ARE  TALKING 
ABOUT." 

Wash  once  hired  a  town  band  to  play  in  front 
of  the  theatre  at  night  in  order  to  draw  a  crowd. 
To  avoid  being  imposed  upon  by  any  one  who 
might  claim  he  was  a  member  of  the  band  and 
gain  admission  into  the  show  unlawfully,  he  gave 
each  one  of  them  a  ticket.  During  the  afternoon 
the  band  had  been  playing  at  a  German  picnic, 
and  when  they  came  to  play  at  night  they  showed 
unmistakable  evidences  of  too  much  "lemonade." 
Wash  was  on  the  door;  everything  went  along 
all  right,  each  man  presented  his  ticket,  until  it 
came  to  a  little  fellow  without  a  horn  or  any 
other  instrument,  who  started  to  walk  right  in. 
Wash  stopped  him : 

"Ticket !" 

"I  am  the  bass  drummer,"  answered  the  lit- 
tle fellow. 

"Well,"  said  Wash,  "where  is  your  ticket?  I 
gave  everybody  in  the  band  a  ticket." 

The  young  man  went  through  his  pockets  but 
could  not  find  the  required  bit  of  paper;  he  in- 
sisted that  he  had  lost  it. 

"Look  again!"  yelled  Wash. 

He  looked  again  and  again,  but  no  ticket  was 
forthcoming. 

"I  have  lost  it,  I  told  you  I  had  lost  it." 

"Lost  it!"  cried  Wash,  "you  couldn't  have 
lost  it!" 

"Why,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about.  I  have  lost  the  bass  drum !" 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 


How  JACK  WORKED  UP  MY  APPLAUSE. 

While  with  "The  Black  Crook"  one  season,  we 
happened  to  play  in  my  native  town.  Forgetting 
that  I  had  not  been  there  for  a  great  many  years 
and  that  the  population  changes  in  a  small  city, 
I  was  nursing  sanguine  expectations  of  getting 
a  good  hand  that  night,  and  asked  old  Jack  Ver- 
non,  who  was  playing  "The  Crook,"  not  to  be 
in  a  hurry  to  speak  the  opening  lines  in  the  scene 
in  which  he  as  the  Crook  is  stirring  the  caldron, 
and  I,  the  slave  Greppo,  who  had  been  asleep 
on  the  hearth,  am  sitting  up  and  rubbing  my 
eyes ;  but  to  wait  for  my  reception.  Contrary 
to  my  fond  hopes  there  was  not  a  sound  from 
the  audience.  I  "rubbed  my  eyes"  until  they 
were  sore,  then  whispered  in  mortification : 

"Jack,  go  on,  go  on !" 

"No,  sir,"  he  replied,  giving  me  a  withering 
look,  "I  am  waiting  for  your  reception."  The 
audience  saw  the  point  and  I  do  not  think  I 
have  ever  received  such  another  welcome  in  my 
life.  Jack  had  certainly  worked  it  up  for  me. 
After  it  was  over  he  looked  at  me  approvingly, 
as  much  as  to  say : 

"There,  young  man,  you  see  how  popular  you 
are,  with  my  assistance !"  and  then  went  on  with 
the  lines  of  the  play. 


9O        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 
BILL  EMMET'S  ANNOUNCEMENT. 

Speaking  of  the  Uncle  Tom's  salaries  reminds 
me  of  Bill  Emmet  during  his  regime  at  the 
Academy  in  Chicago.  While  Bill  paid  his  reg- 
ulars very  good  salaries,  whenever  he  wanted 
an  extra  man,  it  was  eight  dollars  per  week  and 
every  one  knew  it,  so  Bill  used  to  hang  the  part 
out  of  his  window  on  a  fish-line,  and  the  first 
actor  that  came  along  Halsted  street  and  wanted 
work,  took  the  part  off  the  line  and  walked  into 
the  office. 

When  Bill  wanted  to  make  an  announcement 
he  used  to  walk  right  out  on  the  stage  in  the 
midst  of  a  performance,  no  matter  what  was  go- 
ing on.  On  one  occasion  George  Thompson  was 
playing  a  dying  scene,  when  Bill  walked  out  and 
said: 

"Hold  on,  George,  don't  die  yet,  I  want  to 
make  a  few  remarks  to  the  audience;"  then  he 
made  his  little  speech,  which  he  always  ended 
with: 

"Yours  truly,  Bill  Emmet,"  then  turning  to 
George,  and  waving  his  hand,  said : 

"You  can  go  on  and  die  now,  Mr.  Thomp- 
son," and  bowed  himself  out. 

"SAY,  BILL,  You  RAP  FOR  ME,  I  HAVEN'T  ANY 
CANE." 

While  telling  these  old-time  Chicago  stories 
my  memory  goes  back  to  my  dear  old  friend, 
Billy  Manning. 

To  my  mind,  he  was  the  greatest  negro  come- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        91 

dian  in  the  days  of  the  old  Dearborn  Theatre, 
with  Emerson,  Arlington,  Cotton,  and  Kemble. 
Who  can  ever  forget  Manning  in  "The  Mutton 
Trial"?  He  played  the  man  who  was  accused 
of  stealing  the  sheep,  and  all  he  had  to  do  was 
at  intervals  to  baa  like  a  sheep,  but  so  well  did 
he  do  this  that  scarcely  a  citizen  of  Chicago 
failed  to  see  it,  and  it  was  looked  upon  as  a  fad 
as  much  so  as  to  go  to  hear  Patti  or  any  of 
the  great  smgers. 

In  after-years  when  poor  Billy  was  dying  of 
consumption,  and  had  not  a  dollar  in  the  world, 
he  was  seated  one  night  with  a  number  of  his 
old  cronies,  who  were  all  prosperous,  well- 
dressed  swells,  wearing  diamonds  and  carrying 
gold-headed  canes.  In  contrast  Billy  looked 
poor  and  seedy,  but  he  was  the  same  bright, 
witty  fellow,  even  in  his  poverty  and  ill-health. 
Drinks  were  going  fast,  and  whenever  one  of  the 
party  wanted  a  new  round,  in  order  to  attract 
the  waiter's  attention,  he  would  rap  his  gold- 
headed  cane.  Billy  observed  this,  and  after  sev- 
eral rounds  said  quietly  in  his  low  weak  voice 
to  Mr.  Emerson,  who  was  sitting  next  to  him : 

"Say,  Bill,  you  rap  for  me,  I  haven't  any 
cane." 

A  few  months  before  he  died  a  great  bene- 
fit was  given  poor  Billy  at  the  Adelphi  Theatre. 
He  went  on  to  do  one  of  his  old  sketches  which 
the  people  of  Chicago  had  laughed  over  hun- 
dreds of  times,  but  his  voice  was  so  weak  it 
could  only  be  heard  in  the  boxes  and  front  row. 
At  the  close  of  the  act  he  was  called  upon  for  a 
little  speech.  His  remarks  though  flavored  with 


92        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

his  old-time  quaintness  had  a  touch  of  pathos 
that  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  all  when  he 
said: 

"That's  all  right,  boys,  work  it  up;  much 
obliged  for  all  this  applause,  I  may  never  get 
another  chance  to  play  for  a  benefit  like  this," 
and  he  never  did. 

He  is  buried  in  the  little  town  of  Piqua,  Ohio, 
and  the  Minstrel  boys  never  fail  whenever  they 
stop  there  to  pay  a  visit  to  Billy's  grave,  and 
while  they  strew  it  with  sweet  flowers,  the  band 
plays : 

"For  He  Was  a  Jolly  Good  Fellow,"  and 
"Auld  Lang  Syne." 

Such  is  the  tenderness  and  love  the  artists  of 
our  profession  have  for  each  other. 


SHIRLEY  AND  THE  BRIDGE. 

A  certain  well-known  stage  manager  whom  I 
will  call  Shirley  came  to  Chicago  to  act  as  stage 
manager  at  the  Adelphi  Theatre,  during  the  re- 
gime of  Leonard  Grover.  Like  a  great  many 
other  New  Yorkers  he  had  very  limited  ideas 
of  what  the  great  West  was ;  he  imagined  he 
ought  to  see  in  Chicago  wigwams  instead  of  the 
tall  buildings  that  loomed  up  on  all  sides,  and  he 
expected  too,  that  he  would  have  wild  Indians 
as  stage  hands.  Like  all  Eastern  people  he  was 
looked  upon  as  a  tenderfoot  and  was  treated  to 
all  styles  of  practical  jokes. 

Before  the  people  of  Chicago  rose  up  in  their 
might  a  few  years  ago  and  had  the  Chicago 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        93 

River  turned  backwards,  there  used  to  be  old 
wooden  bridges  that  were  turned  by  hand,  and 
these  were  kept  open  certain  hours  each  day  to 
allow  vessels  to  pass  through,  during  which  time 
]>eople  had  to  stand  and  wait  until  that  was  done. 
To  break  the  monotony  they  vied  with  each  other 
in  swearing  and  worrying  at  being  kept  away 
from  their  offices ;  but  they  were  helpless,  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  stand  and  inhale  the 
fragrance  of  the  river.  Whenever  an  actor  was 
late  at  rehearsal  his  standard  excuse  was  he  had 
been  "bridged."  A  few  mornings  after  Shir- 
ley arrived  in  Chicago  one  of  his  actors,  Tom 
Langdon  by  name,  came  in  late.  Now,  Tom 
was  great  on  perpetrating  practical  jokes  of  all 
kinds  and  sizes.  After  apologizing  to  the  new 
stage  manager  for  being  tardy  he  added  that 
when  he  reached  the  bridge  that  morning  he  sud- 
denly discovered  that  he  had  no  change  in  his 
pocket  to  pay  his  toll,  so  he  had  to  return  home 
and  procure  some,  thereby  causing  considerable 
delay  in  arriving  at  the  theatre.  Everybody 
grinned  but  the  stage  manager ;  he  swallowed 
the  little  speech  like  a  true  tenderfoot,  said  he 
was  sorry  and  hoped  it  would  not  occur  again. 
Some  weeks  afterward,  when  Langdon  and  the 
stage  manager  had  become  quite  intimate  friends, 
Langdon  invited  Shirley  to  take  dinner  with 
him.  They  started  together  for  his  home  on 
the  West  side ;  when  they  reached  Madison 
Street  Bridge  Tom,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
called  to  mind  the  old  excuse  he  had  made  to 
Shirley,  so  he  said  to  him : 

"By  George,  I  haven't  any  money  with  me." 


94        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

Shirley  looked  mortified  and  declared: 

"I'll  be  blessed  if  I.  have  any  either." 

"It's  all  right,"  Tom  cheerfully  added,  "I  can 
fix  it.  I  know  the  fellow  who  owns  the  bridge ;" 
and  he  walked  over  to  the  old  man  who  had 
charge  of  the  bridge,  said  something  to  him  in 
a  casual  way  about  the  water  or  the  weather,  and 
then  motioned  Shirley  to  come  on.  When  they 
got  to  the  other  side,  Tom  remarked : 

"You  see  I  am  pretty  solid  with  all  these  peo- 
ple." 

Well,  they  got  home  all  right  and  had  a  good 
dinner,  but  as  Shirley  had  to  return  to  the  thea- 
tre early,  he  started  back  alone.  When  he 
reached  the  bridge  he  happened  to  remember 
that  he  had  no  money,  and  it  was  too  late  for 
him  to  go  back  to  his  friend's.  A  sudden  in- 
spiration struck  him ;  he  walked  over  to  the  fel- 
low on  the  bridge,  and  in  a  beseeching  tone,  said  : 

"I  am  Langdon's  friend ;  in  my  haste  I  came 
away  from  home  this  morning  without  any 
change  in  my  pocket,  but  if  you  will  pass  me 
over  I  will  pay  you  the  next  time  I  see  you," 
etc. 

The  old  man  was  so  used  to  all  sorts  of  cranks 
crossing  the  bridge  that  he  did  not  wonder  at 
the  strange  request,  but  good-humoredly  said : 

"That's  all  right,  sir,  go  right  on." 

When  Tom  reached  the  theatre  that  night  he 
was  in  great  anxiety  to  know  how  Shirley  got 
across  the  bridge,  and  if  he  (Langdon)  had 
been  exposed ;  but  Shirley  quickly  reassured  him 
on  that  score  by  saying : 

"I  tell  you,  that's  a  splendid  man  on  the  bridge. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        95 

You  must  be  awfully  solid  with  him;  why,  he 
passed  me  right  over  and  never  said  a  word." 

This  was  too  much  for  Langdon.  The  joke 
got  all  over  the  theatre  that  night,  and  by  the 
next  day  it  had  spread  all  over  the  town.  It 
caused  Shirley  many  a  round  of  champagne,  and 
I  doubt  if  he  has  ever  quite  forgiven  Tom  for 
that  jest. 


A  STOLEN  THEATRE. 

You  have  doubtless  heard  of  all  kinds  of  rob- 
beries and  hold-ups,  but  did  you  ever  hear  of 
any  one  stealing  a  theatre? 

There  was  an  old  theatre  in  Chicago  on  Hal- 
sted  street  called  the  Halsted  Street  Opera 
House.  It  was  owned  by  two  Jews,  and  patron- 
ized principally  by  servant  girls  and  their  beaux. 
This  Opera  House  was  a  Mecca  for  all  the  poor 
actors  who  drifted  into  town  and  wanted  a  lit- 
tle work  to  eke  out  an  existence. 

After  a  long  season  of  prosperity  it  closed  its 
doors ;  it  had  been  shut  up  for  several  months 
when  the  owner  found  a  new  tenant  and  took 
him  over  to  show  him  the  theatre.  When  they 
opened  the  door  a  wonderful  surprise  was  in 
store  for  them ;  they  discovered  there  was  noth- 
ing left  but  the  four  bare  walls ;  the  seats,  the 
stage,  the  curtains,  the  tapestries,  the  carpets, 
— in  fact,  everything  in  the  theatre  had  been 
taken  out.  How  and  by  whom  it  has  never 
been  ascertained,  as  there  was  no  egress  except 
a  small  passage-way  leading  into  a  back  alley. 


96        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

It  would  seem  utterly  impossible  that  all  this 
paraphernalia  could  have  been  carted  out  there 
without  its  being  seen,  but  it  was,  and  it  goes 
on  record  that  the  Halsted  Opera  House  was  the 
only  theatre  that  was  ever  stolen. 


AUDIENCES  ARE  EASILY  DECEIVED. 

Audiences  are  very  easily  deceived,  both  in 
regard  to  stage  effects  and  what  people  say  on 
the  stage.  Actors  make  the  most  glaring  mis- 
takes, speak  lines  that  absolutely  make  no  sense, 
and  except  by  the  extremely  critical  ear  it  is 
not  detected.  I  knew  a  young  man  years  ago 
named  Richardson,  he  is  dead  now,  poor  fellow. 
He  was  possessed  of  a  striking  personality  and 
a  fine  voice,  but  wholly  uneducated ;  half  the  time 
he  actually  did  not  know  what  he  was  talking 
about,  yet  he  would  pose  in  the  most  artistic  and 
pleasing  manner,  and  the  audience  thought  he 
was  a  splendid  actor. 

I  remember  in  the  drama  called  "How  Women 
Love,"  he  was  one  evening  playing  a  beautiful 
scene,  in  which  he  walked  over  to  the  window, 
pulled  the  curtains  aside,  and  as  he  looked  out 
upon  the  falling  snow,  said  : 

"Green  is  the  snow  where  the  grass  has  laid," 
and  he  went  through  the  entire  part  in  that  way ; 
yet  he  always  escaped  adverse  criticisms  and  was 
a  great  favorite  wherever  he  went. 

Twenty  years  ago  I  saw  a  well-known  lead- 
ing man  of  that  day  playing  a  part  in  New  York 
City.  I  realized  at  the  time  that  he  did  not  know 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        97 

what  he  was  talking  about ;  later  on  my  impres- 
sion was  confirmed  by  the  actor  himself. 

He  would  stride  up  and  down  the  stage,  strike 
an  attitude,  say  something  about  George  Wash- 
ington and  the  American  flag,  and  the  audience 
would  applaud  him  to  the  echo.  I  remember 
the  next  morning  the  newspapers  gave  him  the 
finest  notice  of  any  in  the  company — utterly 
ignoring  those  who  spoke  their  lines  and  did 
their  work  perfectly. 

In  Augustin  Daly's  old  play,  "Under  the  Gas 
Light,"  was  introduced  the  first  idea  of  a  train 
of  cars  crossing  the  stage  at  full  speed,  with 
steam,  whistle,  and  bell  all  in  operation. 

Our  manager  was  very  proud  of  this  train,  in 
fact,  it  was  his  hobby.  Now,  these  cars  were 
painted  on  canvas  tacked  upon  frames,  and  be- 
hind each  frame  stood  a  man  who,  at  a  given 
signal,  merely  ran  across  the  stage  with  his  part 
of  the  frame.  In  the  excitement  and  noise  of 
the  scene  where  the  one-armed  soldier  is  dragged 
from  the  track  by  the  heroine  just  as  the  train 
rushes  by,  it  is  all  done  so  quickly  that  the  au- 
dience scarcely  know  what  is  happening;  yet  the 
stage  manager  was  painfully  particular  that  each 
piece  of  canvas  should  be  tacked  on  exactly  even, 
smoke-stack  straight,  etc.  I  went  to  him  one 
day  while  they  were  putting  the  cars  together, 
and  said : 

"Governor,  if  you  put  that  train  on  upside 
down  people  could  not  detect  the  difference." 

He  laughed  at  the  absurd  idea,  so  I  told  him 
I  would  make  a  nice  little  bet.  I  was  to  put  the 
cars  together  as  I  wished,  and  if  the  audience 


98        John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

noticed  the  slightest  thing  wrong,  or  any  one 
mentioned  it  I  would  lose.  After  considerable 
persuasion  he  consented.  I  had  the  boys  put  the 
train  together  upside  down,  the  cow-catcher 
where  the  smoke-stack  ought  to  be,  and  vice 
versa;  the  engine  was  placed  at  the  back  instead 
of  in  front,  the  wheels  were  up  in  the  air ;  in  fact, 
everything  was  the  opposite  of  what  it  should  be. 
When  night  came  the  manager  was  in  a  high 
state  of  excitement,  fearing  the  scene  would  be 
spoiled,  and  regretting  that  he  had  made  such  a 
foolish  bet.  The  train  went  by  in  a  flash  as 
usual,  and  the  manager  came  rushing  back  to  me, 
saying : 

"Ah,  ha,  my  boy,  I  knew  you  would  not  dare 
to  put  that  train  on  upside  down." 

So  I  walked  him  over  to  have  a  look  at  it. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  expression  that  came 
over  his  face. 

"Come  on,  John,"  he  said,  "you  won.  You 
may  run  that  train  any  way  you  please!" 


How  THE  KING  EUCHRED  THE  JOKER. 

It  frequently  happens  that  offhand  flashes  of 
wit  and  bright  bits  of  repartee  pass  between 
actors  during  a  performance  without  being  de- 
tected by  even  the  most  observing  and  critical 
of  the  audience. 

I  knew  a  man  some  years  ago — a  good  actor 
but  very  careless,  both  in  regard  to  knowing  his 
lines  and  to  securing  the  properties  necessary  for 
him  to  use  in  his  scenes.  One  night  he  was  play- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.        99 

ing  a  messenger,  and  his  business  was  to  bring 
on  a  large  scroll  of  paper  and  hand  it  to  another 
actor  who  was  playing  the  king,  and  the  king 
was  supposed  to  read  it  to  his  courtiers. 

Upon  receiving  his  cue  to  enter  he  discovered 
that  he  had  misplaced  his  scroll.  Seizing  a  piece 
of  blank  paper,  he  marched  boldly  on,  and  kneel- 
ing before  the  king,  presented  it  to  him.  Now, 
the  speech  the  king  was  supposed  to  read  from 
the  scroll  was  one  he  had  never  studied,  as  it  was 
written  for  him.  Perceiving  that  the  messenger 
had  handed  him  a  blank  he  was  greatly  puzzled 
for  a  moment,  but  his  quick  wit  came  to  his 
rescue,  and  handing  it  back  to  him,  commanded 
in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "Read  it  yourself!"  think- 
ing this  would  completely  crush  the  poor  actor, 
but  in  an  instant  the  censured  courier  handed 
back  the  parchment  to  his  majesty,  saying: 

"Nay,  my  lord,  your  humble  subject  would  not 
deign  to  read  your  correspondence." 

This  was  almost  too  much  for  the  king,  but 
rising  to  the  occasion,  and  with  a  slight  wink  at 
the  courtiers,  seized  the  messenger  by  the  arm, 
and  in  the  most  patronizing  tone  exclaimed: 

"Then  come  with  me  to  the  ante-chamber,  and 
we  will  read  it  together,"  and  they  marched 
triumphantly  off  the  stage. 

THE  POWER  OF  MIND  OVER  MATTER. 

Recently  while  in  Chicago,  I  met  an  old  friend 
whom  I  had  not  seen  for  years — a  man  who  had 
been  one  of  the  best  comedians  of  the  day,  and 
whose  name  was  a  household  word. 


ioo      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

I  had  a  great  many  things  I  wanted  to  talk  to 
him  about,  and  a  number  of  questions  I  wished 
to  ask  him  concerning  people  we  both  knew. 
But,  alas,  my  friend  would  talk  on  but  one  sub- 
ject only,  Christian  Science.  He  had  it,  and  he 
had  it  bad. 

Now,  there  are  two  things  I  never  dispute 
with  a  man :  his  religion  and  his  politics ;  if  either 
can  do  him  any  good  his  belief  in  them  is  well 
rewarded.  So  I  let  my  friend  do  all  the  talk- 
ing, and  he  talked  straight  on  the  one  subject 
for  an  hour  and  a  half.  Finally  I  said : 

"But  what  good  does  all  this  do  you?  Tell 
me  one  particular  way  in  which  it  has  benefitted 
you." 

He  looked  earnestly  at  me. 

"John,  you  have  known  me  for  a  long  time ; 
you  know  I  could  never  eat  ham  and  eggs.  Now, 
sir,  three  times  a  day  and  no  effort !" 


A  CHOICE  NOTICE. 

From  the  critic  (?)  of  a  weekly  paper  in  a 
little  city  in  Iowa  I  received  a  notice  that  I  still 
retain  among  the  choicest  in  my  collection.  The 
gentleman  wished  his  readers  to  understand  that 
he  was  beautifully  versed  on  stage  technique,  so, 
after  lauding  me  with  encomiums,  he  ended  by 
saying  that  "I  was  received  with  roars  of  laugh- 
ter every  time  I  appeared  between  the  flies" 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      101 


As  A  SINGER  I  AM  NOT  A  SUCCESS. 

I  never  was  counted  a  good  singer,  in  fact,  my 
best  friends  inform  me  I  am  very  bad.  When 
occasion  demanded,  however,  I  always  struggled 
through  the  verse  of  a  song  without  being  killed ; 
I  came  very  near  it,  though,  one  time.  It  was 
during  the  run  of  "Colleen  Bawn"  at  the  Olym- 
pic Theatre  in  Chicago  in  1882,  where  I  was 
playing  a  star  engagement  in  the  Boucicault 
plays.  In  the  scene  in  Father  Tom's  cabin  Eily 
O'Connor  sings  one  verse  of  the  "Cruiskeen 
Lawn,"  and  I  am  supposed  to  sing  the  other. 
Eily  sang  her  verse  very  sweetly,  and  received  a 
merited  round  of  applause,  during  the  latter 
part  of  which  I  started  in  on  my  verse,  and  man- 
aged to  strike  the  wrong  key,  oh,  but  it  was  aw- 
ful !  The  leader  tried  to  get  me  back,  but  I 
wouldn't  back.  Everybody  was  laughing,  yet  I 
pulled  through  to  the  end,  and  they  applauded 
me  I  think  because  I  had  finished.  In  the  next 
act,  where  Myles  is  describing  his  cave,  I  had  to 
speak  these  lines : 

"They  say  this  place  is  haunted,  that  there  aire 
strange  unairthly  noises  be  coming  out  of  that 
cave — it's  me  singing."  The  audience,  remem- 
bering my  miserable  attempt  in  the  last  act,  were 
quick  to  see  the  point,  and  the  applause  and 
laughter  lasted  several  minutes. 


iO2      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 


Too  CONSCIENTIOUS. 

While  spending  the  summer  of  '83  in  the  little 
town  of  Morrison,  Illinois,  the  citizens  persuaded 
me  to  get  up  a  performance  for  their  Fourth  of 
July  celebration.  As  they  had  some  excellent 
amateur  talent  in  the  place,  I  managed,  after  con- 
siderable hard  work,  to  produce  "Kathleen 
Mavourne."  The  gentleman  cast  to  play  the 
heavy  part,  "Bernard  Cavanaugh,"  was  a  young 
doctor  who  told  me  he  had  had  some  professional 
experience.  He  played  the  part  quite  well  until  he 
came  to  the  exit  in  the  third  act,  where,  with  all 
the  venom  he  could  command,  he  should  have 
spoken,  or  rather  hissed,  the  lines : 

"And  now,  Father  Cassidy,  I  have  you  in  my 
power,"  but  instead  of  saying  "Father  Cassidy," 
by  a  slip  of  the  tongue,  he  said : 

"And  now,  Bernard  Cavanaugh,  I  have  you  in 
my  power."  The  audience  very  likely  would 
never  have  noticed  it,  as  such  mistakes  are  of 
frequent  occurrence,  but  the  young  man,  realiz- 
ing that  he  had  made  a  mistake,  instead  of  mak- 
ing his  exit,  walked  deliberately  down  to  the  foot- 
lights, and  said : 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have  an  apology  to 
make,  I  should  have  said,  'Father  Cassidy/  "  then 
he  marched  back  to  his  place,  and  shaking  his 
fist  at  his  imaginary  enemy,  snouted  in  a  tragic 
voice : 

"And  now,  Father  Cassidy  (with  strong  em- 
phasis on  Father  Cassidy),  I  have  you  in  my 
power !" 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      103 


A  QUEER  MAKE-UP. 

During  a  run  of  "East  Lynne,"  several  years 
ago,  the  young  man  who  was  cast  to  play  Mr. 
Dill  was  made  up  with  the  customary  gray  wig 
and  white  eyebrows,  but  as  he  had  a  long  wait  be- 
tween the  first  and  the  fourth  acts,  he  took  off 
his  wig.  When  the  call  came,  in  his  great  haste 
to  reach  the  stage  he  forgot  to  put  it  on  again. 
After  the  curtain  went  up,  and  he  was  discovered 
with  his  coal-black  hair  and  white  eyebrows,  the 
audience  commenced  to  laugh,  and  finally  grew 
hilarious,  all  the  actors  in  the  entrance  were 
pointing  at  him  and  patting  the  tops  of  their 
heads,  but  the  young  man  sat  there  perfectly 
composed,  actually  believing  he  was  making  a 
tremendous  hit,  and  never  discovering  the  cause 
of  all  the  commotion  until  he  reached  his  dress- 
ing-room and  found  his  wig  hanging  on  a  nail. 


AN  ACCOMMODATING  "SupE." 

Some  years  ago,  during  a  trip  to  San  Fran- 
cisco of  the  company  playing  the  English  melo- 
drama, called  "Taken  from  Life,"  they  stopped 
at  Bozeman,  Montana,  for  the  night ;  when  they 
left  there  the  next  morning  they  found  secreted 
in  their  baggage-car  a  stowaway,  who  said  he  was 
a  cow-puncher,  but  wanted  to  get  to  Frisco,  and 
was  willing  to  work  at  anything  if  they  would 
only  take  him  along.  As  he  was  a  strong,  husky 
young  fellow,  and  they  needed  a  man  to  assist 


IO4      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

on  the  baggage  and  the  properties  they  gave  him 
a  chance,  and  nicknamed  him  "Bozeman,"  in 
honor  of  the  town. 

My  friend,  James  Neill,  was  playing  two  parts, 
the  leading  juvenile  and  the  warden  of  the 
prison ;  but  for  the  San  Francisco  engagement 
they  did  not  wish  to  make  any  doubles,  so  they 
engaged  another  actor  for  the  part  of  warden. 
The  scene  in  which  the  warden  appears  is  a 
prison  in  which  the  hero  is  confined ;  the  villain 
in  the  play  is  visiting  the  prisoner  and  taunts  him 
in  the  most  exasperating  manner.  Finally  the 
warden  asks  the  villain  : 

"Did  you  ever  see  that  man  before?"  and  he 
receives  the  answer: 

"I  was  the  chief  witness  against  him  at  his 
trial,"  to  which  the  warden  replies : 

"Then  you  ought  to  have  had  more  dignity 
than  to  come  here !"  This  rebuke  always  as- 
sured the  warden  of  a  good  round  of  applause. 

On  the  opening  night  the  new  actor  stopped 
in  the  first  part  of  the  dialogue,  that  is,  he  for- 
got to  speak  the  lines  which  assured  him  of  the 
applause,  when  to  the  great  surprise  of  every- 
body our  friend,  Bozeman,  who  was  suping 
amongst  the  other  prisoners,  stepped  forward  and 
said  in  a  loud,  monotonous  voice : 

"Then  you  should  have  had  more  dignity  than 
to  come  here !  //  no  one  else  will  speak  the 
lines  I  will." 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      105 


STAGE  ASPIRANTS. 

It  is  always  amusing  to  watch  young  stage  as- 
pirants and  notice  how  easily  their  craniums  can 
be  swelled  whenever  the  slightest  bit  of  promi- 
nence is  given  them. 

The  negro  boy  who  waited  on  me  in  Cincin- 
nati was  very  fond  of  going  behind  the  scenes, 
and  he  was  occasionally  given  a  small  part  in 
the  way  of  a  servant.  In  "A  Scrap  of  Paper," 
he  had  to  bring  on  a  lamp,  and  reply,  "Yes, 
sir,"  to  a  question  that  was  asked  him,  then  make 
his  exit — a  very  insignificent  part  but  a  neces- 
sary one  unless  we  were  prepared  for  its  omis- 
sion. One  night  he  failed  to  bring  on  the  light; 
when  the  stage  manager  found  him  and  before 
he  had  time  to  shower  upon  him  his  managerial 
wrath,  the  boy  with  a  broad  grin  upon  his  face 
said: 

"Well,  Mr.  Morris,  Fse  a  real  actor  now,  I've 
made  a  stage  wait !" 


A  young  man  who  had  been  suping  during 
our  engagement  in  Los  Angeles  was  given  one 
line  to  speak  in  "The  Christian,"  early  the  next 
morning  the  janitor  found  him  roaming  up  and 
down  the  corridor  where  the  dressing-rooms 
were,  and  told  him  to  go  downstairs,  that  he  had 
no  business  there. 

The  young  man  replied: 

"No,  sir,  I  am  an  actor  now  and  want  to  see 
where  I  am  going  to  dress!" 


106      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

He  did  not  remain  an  "actor"  long,  at  least 
not  with  this  company,  for  after  being  tried  sev- 
eral times  and  found  wanting  he  was  dismissed ; 
as  he  went  out  the  front  door  of  the  theatre  he 
said  in  a  tragic  voice  to  one  of  the  boys : 

"That  man,"  referring  to  the  stage  manager, 
"has  ruined  my  career!" 


A  young  lady  who  had  never  been  on  the  stage 
was  engaged  for  one  of  the  ensemble  scenes.  On 
the  night  of  the  performance  she  came  to  the 
theatre  at  half-past  six,  bringing  with  her  a  large 
quantity  of  make-up,  walked  into  her  dressing- 
room,  and  in  a  loud  voice  asked: 

"Has  anything  been  called?" 


I  have  frequently  been  approached  by  young 
candidates  for  the  stage  with  the  request  that 
they  be  allowed  to  give  me  a  test  of  their  elo- 
cutionary power.  They  would  generally  select 
Poe's  "Raven,"  "The  Maniac,"  and  other  choice 
specimens  of  the  melancholy  type. 

On  one  occasion  I  was  invited  to  a  club  gather- 
ing in  a  little  Southern  city,  and  a  party  of  us 
went,  after  the  performance,  expecting  to  have 
an  enjoyable  evening ;  they  all  did,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  myself.  We  had  only  been  there  a 
few  moments  when  a  young  man  with  a  stage- 
struck  glare  in  his  eye  enveigled  me  into  a  cor- 
ner and  there  insisted  upon  reciting  to  me  Ham- 
let's Soliloquy.  I  barely  lived  through  it,  but 
the  young  fellow,  feeling  that  he  had  not  suffi- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      107 

ciently  exploited  his  ability,  rubbed  it  in  by  re- 
citing the  entire  poem  of  "Shamus  O'Brien," 
which  I  think  is  about  thirty-five  verses.  Now, 
during  this  time  as  his  back  was  to  the  boys  and 
my  face  was  toward  them,  I  fear  my  attention 
was  somewhat  divided,  for  at  the  end  of  every 
verse  the  boys  would  all  rise  in  a  body,  lift  their 
hands,  look  at  me  in  pity,  and  then  walk  sol- 
emnly up  to  the  bar  and  take  a  drink.  As  I 
was  too  polite  to  excuse  myself  and  was  getting 
thirstier  and  thirstier  all  the  time,  you  can  imag- 
ine what  I  must  have  suffered  during  all  those 
verses,  and  you  can  figure  out  what  I  missed. 


I  received  a  curious  epistle  once  from  a  young 
man  in  Iowa,  which  reads  something  like  this : 

DERE  SIR  : — 

I  wud  like  to  jine  out  with  yure  trupe.  My 
folks  tell  me  i  am  a  good  actor;  i  can  play  joe 
morgan,  uncle  torn,  and  the  Peanner.  I  am  at 
present  wurking  at  my  trade  of  shoe-making  but 
will  give  it  up  if  i  can  get  a  job  with  yure  trupe. 
yours  Perfessionally,  S.  J. 

I  advised  the  young  man  to  stick  to  his  last. 


The  most  remarkable  theatrical  aspirant  I  ever 
met  in  my  career  was  a  man  named  Brown.  He 
was  a  little  fellow  with  very  black  hair,  which  he 
combed  in  such  a  way  as  to  accentuate  the  small- 
ness  of  his  forehead.  His  wife  had  played  a 


io8      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

few  parts  with  amateurs  but  he  had  never  been 
upon  the  boards.  Having  been  left  a  large  sum 
of  money,  he  and  his  wife  assumed  a  stage  name 
and  advertised  themselves  as  "The  American 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendall."  They  secured  a  man- 
ager in  New  York,  who  procured  for  them  a 
play  called  "Blue  Grass,"  and  engaged  a  very 
good  company  to  support  them.  The  leading 
man  was  given  to  understand  that  he  was  to  play 
only  when  Mr.  Brown  did  not  desire  to  act  (  ?). 
We  opened  in  a  small  town  in  New  York,  and 
the  performance  went  very  well,  the  wife  having 
been  thoroughly  drilled  into  the  part.  All  was 
smooth  sailing  until  we  reached  Albany  one  Sat- 
urday night,  when  Mr.  Brown  insisted  upon  ap- 
pearing in  the  cast,  and  told  the  leading  man  he 
could  be  excused  for  that  evening.  Now,  mind 
you,  young  Brown  had  never  been  upon  the 
stage  and  had  scorned  being  rehearsed ;  the  lead- 
ing part  was  a  long  one  and  included  a  sword 
combat,  yet  he  walked  out  upon  that  stage  per- 
fectly confident  that  he  could  play  the  part  as 
well  as  the  leading  man  could.  It  was  my  mis- 
fortune to  be  playing  the  opposite  part  with  him, 
I  impersonating  an  old  lawyer  and  he,  my 
younger  partner.  I  knew  what  was  going  to 
happen,  for  the  moment  he  opened  his  mouth  it 
was  all  over,  the  audience  grasped  the  situation 
in  a  moment  and  no  burlesque  or  comedy  that 
was  ever  played  caused  such  screams  of  laugh- 
ter and  sham  applause.  They  went  out  and  pro- 
cured eggs  and  vegetables — everything  they 
could  lay  hold  of — and  waited  for  the  end  of  the 
act.  We  had  literally  dragged  him  through  the 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      109 

performance  and  when  the  curtain  descended 
hoped  that  he  was  satisfied,  but  the  tremendous 
applause  of  the  audience,  who  were  determined 
to  bring  him  before  the  curtain,  only  made  him 
the  more  eager  to  continue.  His  wife  had  sense 
enough  to  see  that  it  was  all  guy,  and  she,  with 
the  assistance  of  the  manager,  stage  manager, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  company  kept  him  from 
going  in  front  of  the  curtain ;  he  was  almost  fran- 
tic with  rage  and  shouted : 

"Why,  it  is  the  first  curtain  call  we  have  had 
since  we  left  New  York."  Finally  he  was  pre- 
vailed upon  to  go  to  his  dressing-room  and  the 
stage  manager  spoke  to  the  audience  and  ap- 
pealed to  their  good-nature  to  give  the  young 
man  a  show.  He  was  allowed  to  continue  the 
performance ;  how  we  got  through  it,  I  do  not 
know,  but  it  was  something  awful.  The  next 
day  two  of  the  members  of  the  company,  realiz- 
ing that  in  spite  of  his  faults,  he  had  money,  took 
him  into  the  hills  and  gave  him  some  elocution 
lessons  and  taught  him  how  to  use  his  voice. 
The  next  night  in  a  little  town  in  Massachusetts, 
in  the  opening  scene  with  him,  I  spoke  my  lines : 

"John,  you've  seen  that  lady  before?"  and  he 
almost  knocked  me  out  of  my  seat  by  yelling  so 
loud  that  you  could  have  heard  him  four  blocks 
away : 

"Yes!" 

I  collected  myself  and  went  on,  "You  did  not 
treat  her  very  well,  John?" 

He  got  back  again  in  the  same  tone,  "No!" 
and  so  he  went  through  the  performance,  yell- 
ing at  the  top  of  his  lungs. 


no      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

Well,  this  audience  positively  rose  up  in  arms. 
We  had  to  lower  the  curtain  and  discontinue  the 
performance.  This  report  was  telegraphed  ahead 
and  the  local  managers  would  not  allow  him  to 
play  any  more;  he  offered  to  rent  or  buy  the 
theatres,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  He  made  up  his 
mind  that  the  manager  and  the  company  were 
trying  to  ruin  him,  so  he  discharged  us  all,  se- 
cured another  manager  and  another  company, 
and  in  a  few  short  months  all  his  money  had 
disappeared.  The  old,  old  story — the  manager 
had  the  money  and  he  had  the  experience. 

I  met  him  one  day  on  Lower  Broadway,  he 
stopped  me  and  told  me  that  he  thought  he  was 
cured,  but  he  wasn't  quite  sure.  I  think  though 
he  was  completely  cured,  for  he  has  never  been 
heard  of  since.  Poor  Brown,  he  lost  his  money 
and  made  a  laughing-stock  of  himself ;  and  thus 
it  happens  with  many  others  whose  ambition  to 
appear  before  the  footlights  is  stronger  than 
their  talent. 


THE  INNOCENT  MANAGER. 

On  the  closing  night  of  a  long  engagement 
in  Minneapolis,  the  boys  in  the  office  thought 
they  would  have  some  fun  with  our  young  mana- 
ger. After  the  house  had  been  counted,  and 
the  money  was  stacked  in  front  of  him.  they 
asked  him  if  he  was  prepared  to  swear  that  he 
had  received  every  cent  that  was  coming  to 
him  during  the  engagement.  He  said  he  was, 
so,  after  looking  in  vain  to  find  a  bible,  which, 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      in 

by  the  way,  would  be  a  rare  volume  in  a  mana- 
ger's office,  they  produced  a  large  book  with 
a  yellow  binding  and  asked  the  young  man  to 
place  his  left  hand  upon  it  and  with  his  right 
hand  raised  aloft  to  solemnly  swear  that  he  had 
received  his  just  dues.  This  he  did  in  the  grav- 
est manner  possible,  while  the  boys  had  to  turn 
their  backs  to  conceal  their  laughter,  for  he  had 
taken  the  oath  upon  the  "City  Directory  of  Min- 
neapolis." 

This  same  young  man  while  in  Bozeman,  Mon- 
tana, asked  the  owner  of  the  Opera  House  there 
why  the  town  was  called  Bozeman.  The  man- 
ager told  him  it  was  named  for  the  man  who  first 
settled  there,  and  was  killed  by  the  Indians.  After 
a  lengthy  pause,  in  which  our  young  manager 
seemed  to  be  thinking  intently,  he  demanded : 

"What  did  they  kill  him  for?" 

Now,  as  Indians  do  not  generally  give  reasons 
for  their  massacres  the  ridiculousness  of  this 
question  is  apparent. 


WHY    UNEEDA    BISCUITS   ARE    HIGH    IN    BIS- 
MARCK. 

Have  you  at  any  time  visited  Bismarck,  North 
Dakota?  Did  you  ever  stop  at  that  hotel  down 
by  the  depot?  And  do  you  remember  seeing 
that  ex-skating  rink,  the  Opera  House?  If  you 
can  answer  all  these  questions  in  the  affirmative 
you  will  then  appreciate  this  story. 

One  of  the  ladies  of  our  company,  Miss  A., 
went  into  a  little  store  to  purchase  a  package  of 


ii2      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

Uneeda  Biscuit,  which  sells  all  over  the  world 
for  ten  cents  a  package.  The  proprietor  of  the 
store,  an  old  man  with  a  woebegone  look  on  his 
face,  and  a  slow,  methodical  way  of  speaking, 
charged  her  twenty  cents  for  it,  just  double  the 
standard  price.  She  remonstrated  with  him  and 
asked  why  he  did  it.  Looking  at  her  in  a  half- 
pitying,  half-apologetic  manner,  he  said : 

"My  good  lady,  don't  you  think  I  ought  to 
have  something  for  living  here?" 

NOT  LOOKING  FOR  COFFINS. 

Another  member  of  our  company,  having  been 
out  one  night  with  the  boys  to  celebrate  the  open- 
ing of  a  new  club,  on  going  to  his  hotel  the  next 
morning,  walked  into  an  undertaker's  establish- 
ment next  door,  thinking  it  was  the  hotel  en- 
trance. He  saw  two  serious-looking  men  in  black 
sitting  there,  surrounded  by  a  solemn  row  of 
caskets.  Realizing  that  he  was  "in  the  wrong 
pew,"  our  friend  started  to  back  out,  but  just 
as  he  got  to  the  door  one  of  the  undertakers  ex- 
claimed : 

"Come  right  in,  sir;  come  right  in!" 
The  young  man  gave  him  one  look,  said,  "Not 
yet!"  and  bolted  out. 

"WHO  Is  HE?" 

I  remember  two  delightful  summers  spent  on 
the  coast  of  Maine,  in  a  little  place  called  Pine 
Point,  where  the  natives  rarely  ever  heard  of 
an  actor  or  the  theatre;  and  as  I  paid  my 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.       113 

regularly  and  minded  my  own  business,  I  was 
the  source  of  a  great  deal  of  curiosity  among  the 
people  as  to  who  and  what  I  was.  As  they  had 
seen  me  several  times  going  fishing  with  the 
Honorable  Thomas  Reed,  who  was  a  near  neigh- 
bor of  mine,  they  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
was  at  least  respectable  and  must  surely  be  some- 
body, so  they  had  me  everything  from  a  bank 
president  to  a  bank  robber ;  and  the  way  those 
natives  asked  me  questions  and  tried  to  ferret 
me  out  was  amusing  in  the  extreme. 

On  one  occasion  I  heard  the  village  barber — 
of  course,  you  know  the  barber  shop  in  a  country 
village  is  the  resort  for  all  the  gossips  in  the 
town — telling  that  there  was  a  lot  of  counter- 
feit silver  in  circulation,  so  the  next  day  while 
in  Portland,  I  went  to  a  bank  and  got  ten  brand- 
new  dollars,  and  every  time  I  had  a  shave  I  gave 
the  barber  one  of  those  new  dollars.  I  never 
knew  how  successfully  it  worked  until  I  was  told 
afterward,  but  he  tried  them  in  all  sorts  of  so- 
lutions, weighed  them,  and  even  went  so  far  as 
to  carry  them  to  the  bank  in  Portland ;  of  course, 
he  always  found  them  to  be  good,  which  disap- 
pointed him  very  much.  When  the  secret  came 
out  his  life  was  made  one  of  torture,  but  the  joke 
was  rather  a  boomerang  on  me,  however,  as  after 
that  I  was  afraid  to  let  him  shave  me,  and 
had  to  go  six  miles  to  the  next  nearest  shop  to 
have  my  face  made  respectable. 


H4      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 


WHY  NEW  YORK  DIDN'T  "STRIKE"  HIM. 

There  was  an  old  fisherman  in  Pine  Point 
named  Bill;  he  was  born  and  raised  there  from 
boy  to  man ;  all  he  knew  of  the  world  was  this 
little  tract  of  land  running  out  into  the  ocean. 
Bill  had  never  been  away  from  home  nor  had 
he  any  desire  to  explore  other  countries.  He 
was  a  sort  of  guide  for  the  fishermen  and  hun- 
ters who  came  there  during  the  season,  he  was 
unusually  well-posted  and,  in  his  crude  way,  very 
bright  and  witty.  I  found  great  pleasure  in  con- 
versing with  him  and  spent  many  happy  hours 
in  his  little  cabin.  I  was  once  telling  him  about 
New  York  City,  describing  the  tall  buildings,  the 
beautiful  streets,  and  all  the  wonders  of  the  great 
metropolis.  He  listened  to  me  very  attentively, 
and  when  I  thought  I  had  reached  a  climax  I 
stopped  to  hear  what  he  would  say;  he  puffed 
at  his  pipe  a  few  times  and  then  said,  in  his  dry, 
quaint  way: 

"Wall,  I  reckon  it's  a  pretty  fine  place,  but  I 
should  think  you  would  hate  to  live  so  far 
away !"  , 

FOUND  OUT. 

My  brother  and  I  had  spent  two  summers  at 
Pine  Point  without  being  detected,  but  one  morn- 
ing, about  a  week  before  I  was  to  leave,  the 
village  postmaster,  with  a  broad  grin  on  his 
face,  handed  me  a  large  letter.  I  looked  at  the 
address  and  read: 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      115 

"John  Burton,  Actor." 

The  secret  was  out,  the  natives  had  discovered 
me,  and  before  night  every  one  in  the  town  and 
the  adjacent  country  were  telling  each  other 
about  the  real  live  actor  they  had  in  the  village. 
I  overheard  the  stable  boy  telling  the  servant 
girls  that  I  was  "the  greatest  actor  that  ever 
lived,  and  that  I  wrote  all  my  own  plays !" 

Even  my  old  dog  did  not  seem  to  be  as  famil- 
iar with  me  as  he  had  formerly  been.  The  man 
who  carried  my  trunk  and  myself  to  the  depot 
when  I  left  said : 

"Wall,  the  folks  are  mighty  glad  they've  found 
out  what  you  do  for  a  living,  it's  been  worrying 
them  considerable.  Say,  mister,  is  your  brother 
a  show  actor,  too?" 

I  said: 

"Oh,  no,  he  is  an  United  States  Senator!" 

I  never  heard  what  they  did  to  Frank. 


BUFFALO  BILL'S  INDIANS. 

There  is  scarcely  a  nationality  that  has  not  its 
representative  upon  the  stage ;  even  the  Ameri- 
can Indian,  with  all  his  stolidity,  has  trod  the 
mimic  boards. 

The  first  Indians  I  ever  remember  seeing  on 
the  stage  were  a  band  Buffalo  Bill  had  in  his 
play  that  I  have  spoken  of  in  a  preceding  story. 
They  were  the  most  enthusiastic  and  realistic 
actors  I  ever  saw ;  there  were  large  Indians,  small 
Indians,  fat  Indians,  and  slim  Indians ;  at  the  end 
of  every  act,  while  they  were  engaged  in  a  war- 


n6      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

dance  or  some  other  typical  diversion  of  their 
tribe,  Bill  and  his  cowboys  would  fire  volleys 
of  blank  cartridges  at  them,  and  the  Indians 
would  all  fall  dead;  in  the  next  act  they  would 
loom  up  again  the  same  old  Indians,  and  at  the 
end  of  that  act  would  all  fall  dead  again ;  as  there 
were  five  acts  in  the  play,  those  Indians  must 
have  thought  they  were  making  frequent  visits 
to  the  happy  hunting  ground. 

They  were  the  first  band  that  was  ever  taken 
from  the  reservation  by  the  consent  of  the  gov- 
ernment. 

When  they  were  first  brought  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, they  were  seated  in  the  office  of  the  Pal- 
ace Hotel  in  the  chairs  in  front  of  the  elevator, 
while  the  manager  was  registering  and  arrang- 
ing for  their  rooms.  They  took  great  interest 
in  watching  the  elevator  going  up  and  down,  and 
gazed  with  awe  at  seeing  it  take  great  crowds 
up  and  then  come  down  empty ;  they  looked  at 
each  other  and  shook  their  heads ;  so  when  the 
manager  tried  to  get  them  into  the  elevator  to 
go  to  their  rooms,  they  flatly  refused  to  obey 
orders ;  the  chief,  in  a  very  grave  manner,  said : 

"Ugh,  much  go  up,  not  much  come  down !" 

No  argument  could  induce  them  to  enter  the 
elevator.  Now,  Indians  are  like  children  in  the 
kindergarten,  they  must  have  things  explained 
to  them  in  the  same  simple  way,  so  the  manager 
and  several  other  gentlemen  got  into  the  cage 
and  rode  up  and  down  a  few  times ;  this  seemed 
to  satisfy  the  chief,  so  they  got  in  and  were 
taken  up.  Then  came  another  perplexing  situa- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      117 

tion ;  they  liked  to  ride  so  well  that  they  declined 
to  get  out ;  the  spokesman  said : 

"Me  big  chief,  me  ride !" 

So  they  had  to  carry  them  up  and  down  in 
the  elevator  until  they  had  had  enough  of  it  and 
were  finally  persuaded  to  go  to  their  rooms. 

That  night  at  dinner  they  were  served  with 
ice  cream,  ea^h  Indian  devouring  as  many  dishes 
as  they  would  give  him,  and  when  they  left  the 
table  they  looked  with  longing  eyes  for  more. 
The  next  morning  at  breakfast  they  all,  with  one 
accord,  pushed  aside  their  dishes  and  yelled  in 
a  deafening  voice : 

"Ice  cream !" 


DOCTOR  CHARLIE'S  METHOD. 

While  in  Evansville,  Indiana,  I  met  an  Indian 
doctor  named  Charlie,  who  had  a  small  band  of 
Indians  with  him ;  he  used  to  give  medicine  lec- 
tures in  the  halls.  Sitting  in  the  hotel  one  day, 
my  manager  was  complaining  of  the  great  ex- 
pense of  his  company,  and  Doctor  Charlie  said : 

"You  ought  to  have  a  show  like  mine." 

"How's  that?"  asked  my  manager. 

"Why,  a  lot  of  Indians,  they  would  not  cost 
anything,"  replied  Charlie ;  then  he  went  on  to 
say : 

"You  see  their  salaries  are  very  small,  they 
sleep  in  the  hall,  provide  their  own  food,  and 
when  the  engagement  is  over  the  chief  comes  to 
me  and  asks,  'What  next  town?'  I  say  So  and 
So.  'Which  way?'  I  point  in  the  direction. 


ii8      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

'How  far?'  I  tell  him  the  number  of  miles,  then 
the  chief  says :  'Good-day.'  And  when  I  reach 
the  next  place  my  Indians  are  all  there." 

My  manager  laughed  and  said : 

"Well,  I  can  see  a  lot  of  actors  doing  that !" 


NOT  LIKE  THE  INDIANS  HE  KNEW. 

We  were  playing  "The  Octoroon"  and  there 
was  a  remarkable  Indian  character  in  the  play 
called  "Wah-no-te."  He  was  a  good  and  heroic 
Indian,  and  won  great  applause  from  the  gallery 
by  killing  the  villain  in  a  bowie-knife  fight.  There 
is  an  old  saying,  "The  only  good  Indians  are 
dead  ones,"  but  this  Indian  was  an  exception 
to  the  rule. 

We  invited  Charlie  and  his  band  to  a  box  seat 
to  witness  the  performance.  After  the  show  I 
asked  one  of  the  chiefs  what  he  thought  of  the 
Indian.  He  slowly  replied  : 

"Ugh,  if  he  Indian,  me  never  see  one  like!" 


A  NATIVE  SON. 

We  had  a  young  man  in  the  company  whom 
I  will  call  Scott,  he  was  a  native  son  of  the 
Golden  West.  At  the  end  of  the  season  when 
the  manager  was  renewing  his  contracts  with 
us,  Scott,  as  he  was  considered  a  fixture  in  the 
company,  was  not  asked  to  sign  one.  He  seemed 
very  much  put  out  about  it ;  finally  he  came  to 
me  and  asked  why  it  was ;  I  said  to  him : 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      119 

"You  are  a  native  of  California,  aren't  you — 
what  they  call  a  native  son?  The  manager  took 
you  from  there,  didn't  he?"  He  said,  "Yes." 
Then  I  explained : 

"You  are  all  right,  you  needn't  bother  about 
the  contract  one  bit,  the  boss  is  compelled  to  take 
you  back  to  the  place  from  where  you  came,  just 
the  same  as  Buffalo  Bill  has  to  take  his  Indians 
back  to  their  reservation."  And  as  all  the  rest 
of  the  boys  nodded  in  grave  assent  he  believed 
this  and  was  perfectly  satisfied,  and  it  was  some 
time  afterward,  when  he  had  become  seasoned 
in  the  business,  that  he  realized  the  joke. 


THE  ART  OF  MEMORIZING. 

Study,  or  memorizing,  is  a  gift  with  which 
everybody  is  more  or  less  endowed.  I  have  al- 
ways been  considered  among  my  associates  in 
the  profession  as  having  a  most  wonderful  study ; 
yet  I  claim  no  credit  for  it,  it  is  simply  a  gift 
from  the  Almighty. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  pride  and  joy  I  ex- 
perienced over  an  easy  victory  I  won  through 
the  means  of  this  God-given  talent.  When  I 
was  a  small  boy  my  Sunday-school  teached  of- 
fered a  prize  to  the  pupil  committing  to  memory 
the  greatest  number  of  verses  and  reciting  them 
on  a  certain  Sunday  morning.  I  did  not  start 
in  until  Friday  or  Saturday  of  the  week  preced- 
ing the  contest,  but  I  came  off  with  flying  colors. 
One  boy  repeated  ten  or  twelve  verses;  another, 
barely  one ;  another  one,  three ;  most  of  the  class 


I2O      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

could  give  not  more  than  ten  short  verses.  When 
it  came  my  turn  I  recited  as  many  chapters  as 
the  entire  class  had,  verses;  my  teacher  stopped 
me,  thinking  doubtless  I  was  going  to  give  the 
whole  of  the  Old  Testament.  I  won  the  prize; 
as  in  the  case  of  the  first  yacht  race  for  the 
American  Cup,  there  was  no  second. 

From  that  time  I  discovered  I  could  memorize 
by  merely  reading  an  article  over,  and  in  my  pro- 
fession it  has  been  of  invaluable  service  to  me. 
To  any  actor  possessing  this  gift  he  alone  knows 
its  great  worth,  as  it  relieves  him  of  much  hard 
work — especially  if  he  is  connected  with  a  stock 
company. 

Nearly  every  actor  has  his  own  way  of  com- 
mitting a  part.  I  study  by  merely  reading  to 
myself,  never  aloud  unless  it  be  to  try  the  effect 
of  a  speech,  and  always  stop  when  I  feel  the 
brain  is  tired,  for  in  that  case  it  will  not  retain. 
Not  only  has  he  to  study  the  words  but  the  char- 
acter, dress,  make-up,  walk,  laugh,  and  every- 
thing pertaining  to  the  part.  So  you  see  what 
an  actor,  especially  a  stock  actor,  has  to  go 
through  with. 

Those  who  commit  the  easiest  generally  for- 
get as  readily.  I  know  it  is  so  in  my  case ;  I 
can  hardly  remember  a  part  I  played  a  week  ago, 
but  once  looking  it  over  brings  it  all  back  to 
me  as  distinctly  as  at  first.  In  New  York,  where 
a  play  runs  the  entire  season,  they  generally  re- 
hearse so  long  that  they  learn  the  parts  at  re- 
hearsal; yet  those  same  actors  placed  in  a  stock 
company  would  be  "at  sea."  Mr.  Daly  never 
allowed  his  company  to  study,  everything  was 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      121 

learned  at  rehearsal ;  and  so  it  is  with  a  great 
many  of  the  principal  stars  of  the  present  day. 

I  remember  an  old  actor,  James  Garden,  who, 
at  his  first  performance  and  in  the  rehearsals 
leading  to  it,  was  always  perfect,  but  as  soon 
as  he  began  to  study  a  new  part  for  the  coming 
week  he  forgot  the  old  part  that  he  was  playing 
and  by  Sunday  he  could  scarcely  remember  his 
own  name ;  and  yet,  stored  up  in  his  brain  was 
all  of  Shakespeare,  quotations  and  selections 
from  the  poets,  and  a  mass  of  miscellaneous  in- 
formation. Would  that  we  could  solve  this  won- 
derful trait  called  Memory !  Can  any  one  un- 
fold where  all  these  things  are  kept  in  our  brain  ? 

I  was  taken  out  of  an  audience  in  Chicago 
one  night  to  play  "Grandfather  Trent"  in  "The 
Old  Curiosity*  Shop,"  the  actor  who  was  play- 
ing the  role  being  disabled  by  sudden  illness. 
While  I  was  dressing  for  the  part  I  studied  the 
first  act ;  between  scenes  and  overtures,  the  rest 
of  the  play.  I  managed  to  speak  all  the  lines 
and  got  through  the  part  without  making  a  mis- 
take. Actors  and  managers  who  were  in  front 
thought  it  a  most  wonderful  achievement ;  yet 
to  me  it  was  not ;  being  a  Dickens'  student  I  knew 
what  "Grandfather  Trent"  was,  and  merely  had 
to  commit  the  words  which  my  gift  of  memory 
enabled  me  to  without  any  trouble. 

I  knew  an  actor  to  learn  "Volarge,"  in  the 
"Marble  Heart,"  during  a  night;  another  one, 
who  has  since  become  famous,  "Hamlet,"  in  less 
than  a  day.  I.  myself,  studied  "Touchstone"  in 
a  sleeping-car  between  St.  Paul  and  Minneapolis 
and  rehearsed  it  perfect  the  next  day. 


122      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

Go  some  morning  to  the  theatre  where  any 
prominent  stock  company  is  playing  and  watch 
a  rehearsal;  see  those  who  learn  readily,  and 
those  who  have  to  struggle  so  hard  to  do  what 
another  does  so  easily.  Sometimes,  indeed  very 
often,  the  best  actors  have  the  hardest  studies. 
It  is  a  pity  the  gift  of  memorizing  has  not  been 
bestowed  equally  upon  all,  as  it  would  save  many 
a  sleepless  night  and  numberless  days  of  cease- 
less work. 

Too  ANXIOUS. 

There  is  nothing  to  be  compared  with  stage 
fright,  unless  possibly  it  be  an  active  case  of 
sea-sickness,  and  of  the  two  evils  I  would  choose 
the  latter.  In  fact,  I  can  recall  no  suffering  that 
is  more  painful  nor  more  lasting  in  its  after-ef- 
fects than  is  any  of  the  grades,  degrees,  or  quali- 
ties of  stage  fright.  To  suddenly  face  the  foot- 
lights and  forget  everything  you  have  to  say,  to 
come  on  at  the  wrong  time  and  find  you  are 
speaking  lines  that  belong  in  the  next  scene,  or 
to  be  sitting  in  your  dressing-room  in  a  state  of 
anxious  suspense  and  have  the  prompter  rush 
in  and  say  to  you,  "Your  scene  is  over,''  or  "You 
have  made  an  awful  stage  wait !"  All  these 
things  produce  an  effect  that  cannot  be  described 
— you  must  positively  pass  through  it. 

I  recall  to  mind  as  vividly  as  though  it  had 
happened  yesterday  an  incident  that  occurred 
nearly  thirty  years  ago.  It  was  at  the  old  Acad- 
emy in  Pittsburg;  the  late  Charles  W.  Couldock 
and  his  daughter  were  playing  a  star  engage- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      123 

ment,  the  piece  on  the  night  in  question  being 
a  little  English  drama  entitled  "Milky  White." 
I  was  cast  to  play  a  boy  whose  business  was  to 
come  to  the  window  in  a  certain  scene  and  call 
out  in  a  loud  voice,  "Milky  White,  snarl  and 
bite!"  That  was  all  I  had  to  say  or  do,  yet  I 
felt  that  the  responsibility  of  the  whole  show 
rested  upon  my  shoulders,  and  I  was  so  afraid 
I  would  not  say  those  lines  at  the  right  time,  that 
I  had  the  window  partly  open  in  order  that  I 
might  hear  my  cue.  Mr.  Couldock  was  play- 
ing one  of  his  most  important  scenes,  and 
during  a  pause  in  which  he  was  doing  a  beauti- 
ful piece  of  business,  I  called  out  hurriedly  in 
a  stage  whisper,  thinking  I  had  made  a  wait : 

"Is  that  me,  Mr.  Couldock?" 

The  old  man  was  standing  with  his  hand  on 
the  back  of  a  chair.  Without  looking  at  me, 
he  threw  the  chair  back  against  the  window  and 
said  in  the  same  tone  that  he  was  playing  the 
part: 

"No,  it  is  not  you,  you  damn  fool !" 

I  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  and  I  guess  I  would 
have  been  running  yet  had  not  the  stage  door 
been  locked  and  prevented  my  getting  out. 

"I  CAN  SAY  IT  Now,  SIR." 

I  remember  a  young  girl,  while  playing  the 
daughter  in  "Miss  Multon,"  became  badlv  fright- 
ened and  forgot  her  lines  entirely.  When  the 
act  was  over,  both  the  star  and  the  stage  man- 
ager censured  her  in  very  strong  language.  This 
was  a  grave  mistake,  for  the  poor  girl  had  had 


124      Jonn  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

but  little  experience,  and  lapses  of  memory  are 
common  even  among  old  actors.  With  her  sen- 
sitive nature  she  needed  encouragement  rather 
than  reproof. 

That  night  as  I  was  passing  down  the  hall  to 
my  room,  I  met  this  young  lady  coming  from 
her  room  clad  only  in  her  night  clothes.  I 
scarcely  knew  what  to  think,  but  as  she  drew 
nearer  to  me  I  saw  that  she  was  walking  in  her 
sleep.  I  did  not  dare  awaken  her,  I  was  afraid 
it  might  produce  an  unpleasant  shock,  but  I  fol- 
lowed her  closely  to  see  what  she  would  do,  and 
to  prevent  any  accident  befalling  her.  She 
walked  deliberately  down  the  long  hall,  up  a 
flight  of  stairs,  then  the  length  of  another  hall; 
when  she  came  to  a  room  at  the  far  end  of  the 
hall  and  directly  over  her  own  she  rapped  tim- 
idly on  the  door;  as  there  was  no  answer  she 
rapped  a  little  louder,  then  very  loud.  Finally, 
a  voice  came  from  tl.e  room  which  I  recognized 
as  Mr.  Herbert's,  our  stage  manager: 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"It  is  I,  Mr.  Herbert,"  replied  the  girl.  "I 
can  say  it  now,  sir;  I  can  say  it  now!" 

The  unhappy  girl  had  lived  over  again  during 
the  night  the  dreadful  experience  of  the  evening. 
I  approached  her  and  tapped  her  gently  on  the 
arm.  She  awoke  with  a  start,  and,  of  course, 
was  very  much  confused,  but  I  led  her  back  to 
her  room.  I  was  glad  to  know  the  next  morn- 
ing that  she  remembered  nothing  at  all  of  the 
circumstance.  I  doubt,  though,  if  the  cause  that 
produced  this  effect  was  obliterated  from  her 
mind  as  easily. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      125 


SEEKING  ENGAGEMENTS. 

Did  you  ever  walk  along  Broadway,  New 
York,  between  Twenty-eighth  and  Forty-second 
streets,  and  see  the  actors  and  actresses  hurry- 
ing in  and  out  of  the  agencies  and  the  managers' 
offices,  and  note  the  different  expressions  on  their 
faces?  On  some  you  will  notice  pleased,  hope- 
ful looks,  and  if  you  are  a  close  observer,  you 
will  detect  tucked  away  in  their  pockets  or  belts 
a  new  part  that  has  just  been  assigned  them. 
Sometimes  they  are  so  much  engrossed  in  these 
manuscripts  that  they  go  along  the  streets  read- 
ing them,  and  if  you  look  still  closer,  you  can 
almost  surmise  from  the  expressions  on  their 
faces  what  is  passing  through  their  minds.  On 
the  other  hand,  you  will  see  many  more  who  have 
been  told  the  simple  fatal  words  that  have  be- 
come to  them  an  echo  from  day  to  day : 

"Very   sorry,  nothing  doing!" 

The  rebuffs  and  excuses  that  an  actor  receives 
from  managers  and  agencies  are  in  many  in- 
stances, while  they  have  their  sad  effects,  most 
laughable  and  ridiculous. 

Charlie  Foster,  known  as  "The  Silver  King," 
because  of  his  beautiful  long  silver-white  hair 
that  fell  nearly  to  his  shoulders,  was  in  special 
demand  for  parts  that  required  a  man  of  his  ap- 
pearance. One  day  he  walked  into  a  manager's 
office  to  apply  for  a  certain  part.  As  soon  as  the 
manager  saw  him,  he  exclaimed : 

"Aha,  Mr.  Foster,  you  are  the  very  man  I 
want  for  that  character.  You  have  just  the  face. 


126      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

and  that  beautiful  hair  fills  the  bill  exactly."  Char- 
lie thought  he  was  fixed  for  a  lengthy  engage- 
ment, when  all  of  a  sudden  the  manager  stopped 
and  began  to  scrutinize  him  very  closely. 

"Too  bad,"  he  said,  sadly,  "there  is  one  thing 
missing.  I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Foster,  but  you 
haven't  the  gray  side-whiskers !" 


A  certain  manager  met  me  on  the  street  one 
day  and  said: 

"I  have  just  the  part  for  you,  John,  and  would 
like  to  have  you  play  it.  Come  with  me  and  see 
the  authoress ;  I  know  we  can  fix  it  all  right." 

As  he  offered  me  a  good  salary,  and  the  play 
was  a  New  York  production,  I  went  with  him 
to  the  hotel  to  see  the  lady  who  had  written  it. 
She  came  down  into  the  parlor  and  I  was  in- 
troduced to  her.  She  immediately  began  to  look 
me  over,  as  if  I  were  an  exhibit  at  a  horse  show. 
Finally  she  said : 

"I  do  not  think  you  will  do,  Mr.  Burton,  you 
have  not  that  square-cut  jaw  that  denotes  the 
firmness  of  character  I  wish  in  this  part." 

"Madam,  will  you  not  allow  me  to  make  up 
for  the  part?"  I  asked.  "I  do  not  go  around  the 
street  looking  as  I  do  on  the  stage."  But  it  was 
of  no  use,  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  I  was 
not  what  she  wanted.  The  manager,  who  was 
an  old  friend  of  mine,  laughed  as  we  left  the 
hotel. 

"Acting,"  he  said,  "used  to  be  depicting  what 
we  are  not,  but  now  it  is  simply  being  what  we 
are." 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      127 

"What  do  you  think?"  a  young  lady  remarked 
to  me  one  morning,  "I  was  at  Mr.  A.'s  agency 
yesterday,  and  he  said  he  had  a  lovely  part  for 
me,  but  I  was  half  an  inch  too  short.  I  went 
from  there  to  Mr.  B.'s  agency,  and  he  informed 
me  that  he  had  a  splendid  part  for  me,  but  that 
I  was  just  half  an  inch  too  tall!  And  so,"  she 
exclaimed,  "what's  a  poor  girl  going  to  do !" 

Maurice  Barrymore  once  said,  "They  wouldn't 
have  me  in  London  on  account  of  my  American 
accent ;  and  they  wouldn't  have  me  in  New  York 
on  account  of  my  English  accent.  So  where  am 
I  going  to  play — on  the  Ocean  liners?" 


I  remember  once  reading  an  advertisement  in 
a  dramatic  paper  from  a  man  and  wife.  They 
enumerated  the  different  lines  of  business  they 
were  capable  of  doing ;  the  man  played  every- 
thing from  leads  to  boys,  and  the  woman,  from 
old  women  to  engenues ;  they  both  doubled  in 
brass,  and  added  that  they  could  furnish  several 
instruments,  including  a  bass  drum.  Now,  ridic- 
ulous as  that  advertisement  would  seem  to  the 
swell  managers  of  New  York,  these  people  doubt- 
less would  prove  two  most  valuable  acquisitions 
to  many  of  the  little  repertoire  companies  that 
tour  the  country. 

WHAT  A  DIFFERENCE  ! 

An  old  friend  of  mine  at  one  time  one  of  the 
best-known  minstrels  in  his  day,  but  who  with 
the  decline  of  minstrelsy  had  drifted  into  vaude- 


128      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

ville,  applied  for  an  engagement  to  an  agent  in 
Boston,  who  was  booking  the  circuit  of  summer 
gardens  and  parks.  Now,  my  friend,  while  he 
is  not  an  old  man  by  any  means,  is  prematurely 
gray,  his  hair  and  mustache  being  almost  per- 
fectly white.  He  walked  into  the  manager's  of- 
fice, and  approaching  him,  said: 

"I  should  like  to  book  myself  for  several  weeks 
on  your  circuit." 

The  manager  scarcely  looking  up  said  in  a 
half-irritated  tone : 

"Nothing  to-day,  old  man ;  nothing  to-day." 

"But,  my  dear  sir,  I  have  a  very  nice  mono- 
logue, have  been  a  great  many  years  in  the  busi- 
ness and  am  well  known ;  my  salary  is  not  large, 
fifty  dollars." 

"Nothing  doing,  old  man;  nothing  doing!" 
shutting  him  off. 

Seeing  that  he  was  unable  to  make  any  head- 
way with  this  positive  gentleman,  he  reluctantly 
departed.  Downtown  he  met  a  friend  and  poured 
into  his  ears  an  account  of  the  bad  treatment  he 
had  just  received  at  the  hands  of  this  pompous 
manager.  To  his  great  surprise  the  friend  com- 
menced to  abuse — not  the  manager  but — the  ill- 
treated  one : 

"You  old  'Has  been,'  why  don't  you  get  out 
of  the  business  and  give  some  younger  man  a 
chance?  Go  out  and  drive  a  street-car,  anything 
to  make  an  honest  living ;  don't  pester  the  man- 
agers to  death,  they  don't  want  you !" 

Of  course,  he  said  this  only  as  a  "josh,"  but 
the  old  minstrel  took  the  words  to  heart,  and  go- 
ing back  to  his  room  stood  before  his  glass  in 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      129 

sore  dejection.  Suddenly  an  inspiration  came  to 
him.  He  seized  his  hat  and  rushed  out  to  the 
barber  shop.  He  had  his  white  hair  and  mus- 
tache died  a  beautiful  black,  then  he  went  back 
to  the  manager's  office.  He  was  barely  inside 
the  door  when  the  manager  looked  up  and  said 
in  a  cheerful  tone: 

"Well,  young  man,  what  can  I  do  for  you  to- 
day?" 

"I  should  like  to  play  your  circuit  for  a  few 
weeks.  Nice  monologue." 

"All  right,  sir,  book  you  for  ten  weeks.  What's 
your  salary?" 

My  friend  thought  a  moment: 

"Seventy-five  dollars !" 

"All  right,"  said  the  manager,  "your  contracts 
will  be  ready  in  an  hour." 

My  friend  walked  out  of  the  office  feeling  as 
if  he  owned  the  whole  of  Boston.  So  a  good 
turn-down,  a  little  abuse  from  a  friend,  and  fifty 
cents'  worth  of  hair  dye,  had  worked  a  magic 
and  raised  his  salary  twenty-five  dollars  a  week ! 

A  CONSIDERATION  FOR  BOOTH  AND  BARRETT. 

The  manager  of  the  opera  house  at  Sioux 
Falls,  South  Dakota,  also  owned  a  store,  which 
was  the  meeting-place  for  the  idle  brains  of  the 
town.  I  was  sitting  in  this  store  one  evening 
when  a  travelling  man  came  in ;  winking  at  me, 
he  turned  to  the  storekeeper  and  said : 

"I  saw  Booth  and  Barrett  over  at  Sioux  City 
last  night.  Why  don't  you  try  to  get  them  to 
come  here,  Mr.  Bangs?" 


130      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

Now  Bangs  was  an  enterprising  young  man- 
ager, but,  strange  to  say,  had  never  heard  a  great 
deal  about  Booth  and  Barrett. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  get  them?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  certainly,"  replied  the  travelling  man ; 
"you  just  write  to  them,  they'll  come  right  over." 

"I'll  do  it,"  said  Bangs.  "My,  what  a  house 
they  could  get  here !  Why,  don't  you  know,  I  be- 
lieve I  could  guarantee  them  a  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars !" 

The  travelling  man  winked  at  me  again,  and 
I  believe  we  went  out  and  had  a  drink — we  had 
to  do  something. 


ONE  ON  THE  BARBER. 

A  member  of  our  company  who  had  been 
with  us  a  number  of  years  went  into  a  barber 
shop  one  day  in  Ogden,  Utah.  The  barber,  rec- 
ognizing him  as  a  member  of  the  company,  be- 
gan a  cross-fire  of  questions,  as  barbers  gener- 
ally do.  Finally  he  remarked  : 

"You  were  not  with  the  company  last  year?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  was,"  replied  my  friend,  "I  have 
been  with  them  several  seasons." 

The  barber  shook  his  and  said : 

"I  do  not  remember  your  face." 

"No,"  replied  my  friend,  "it's  healed  up — you 
shaved  me!" 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      131 


"No  SHAVE  TO-DAY." 

Speaking  of  barbers,  I  met  a  funny  one  in 
Key  West,  Florida,  some  years  ago.  I  walked 
into  his  shop  one  morning  about  ten  o'clock ;  it 
was  what  they  call  in  Florida  a  cold  day,  the 
thermometer  being  about  sixty-five,  but  the  in- 
habitants were  shivering  as  if  it  were  forty  be- 
low. I  found  the  barber  clad  in  white  trousers, 
low  shoes  and  thin  socks;  the  upper  portion  of 
his  body  was  encased  in  a  heavy  sweater,  and 
around  his  neck  was  a  large  muffler  which  nearly 
concealed  his  face.  He  was  sitting  crouched 
over  a  diminutive  oil  stove,  rubbing  his  hands 
to  keep  them  warm.  As  I  stood  there  waiting 
for  him  to  make  some  move  towards  attending 
to  my  wants,  he  finally  looked  up  at  me,  but 
shaking  his  head  in  a  sorrowful  manner  said : 

"Too  cold;  no  shave  to-day!" 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  start  out  again 
in  quest  of  another  shop.  I  had  gone  only  a 
short  distance  when  I  saw  the  well-known  bar- 
ber sign,  attached  to  a  little  building  which  stood 
off  by  itself  on  a  vacant  lot.  I  ventured  to  en- 
ter this  diminutive  establishment,  but  found  no 
one  in  except  a  negro  boy  about  fifteen  years 
of  age. 

"Is  the  proprietor  in?"  I  asked. 

"One  of  them  is,  sah,"  he  replied  with  an  air 
of  importance  as  he  prepared  himself  to  do  busi- 
ness. 

I  was  a  trifle  suspicious  of  the  young  man,  but 
I  got  into  the  chair  and  he  started  in  to  lather 


132      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

me;  I  soon  perceived  that  he  was  not  an  artist 
in  his  profession,  but  I  waited  until  he  tried  the 
razor  on  my  face — when  my  worst  fears  were 
confirmed.  I  stopped  him  by  saying: 

"Young  man,  I  am  afraid  my  beard  is  too 
hard  for  you,  I  will  come  in  again,"  and  wiping 
the  lather  off  my  face  I  left  him  standing  look- 
ing at  me  with  his  eyes  almost  bulging  out  of 
his  head. 

Later  in  the  day,  having  been  told  by  the  land- 
lord that  the  old  man  in  there  was  a  very  fine 
barber,  I  again  visited  the  shop  and  this  time 
found  the  proprietor  in.  He  started  in  to  shave 
me. 

"Have  I  ever  had  de  pleasure  of  shaving  you 
befo'?"  he  asked. 

"No,  uncle,  I  don't  believe  you  have;  I  was 
in  here  this  morning,  and  the  boy  started  to  shave 
me,  but  I  realized  that  he  could  not  operate  on 
such  a  hard  beard  as  mine,  so  I  gave  it  up."  The 
old  man  suddenly  stopped  shaving  me,  and  the 
most  peculiar  expression  came  over  his  face : 

"Did  dat  boy  endeavor  to  shave  you,  sah?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  scarcely  realizing  what  I 
was  saying. 

"Will  you  'scuse  me  for  a  minute,  sah?"  lay- 
ing down  his  razor,  "I  has  some  bery  perticular 
bizness  to  attend  to." 

Wondering  what  he  meant  I  good-naturedly 
said: 

"Why,  certainly,  uncle." 

In  about  a  moment  I  realized  what  the  "par- 
ticular business"  was.  Reaching  up  on  the  wall 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      133 

he  took  down  a  large  strap  and  looking  at  the 
boy  who  was  shaking  with  fear,  said : 

"  'Rastus,  come  out  in  de  yard !" 

Erastus  obeyed,  and  in  a  moment  or  so  I  heard 
the  strap  coming  down  on  his  back,  and  the  yells 
that  filled  the  air  plainly  told  me  what  was  go- 
ing on.  After  he  had  administered  this  severe 
chastisement  the  old  man  returned,  hung  up  the 
strap,  took  up  his  razor  and  resumed  shaving; 
while  Erastus  sat  meekly  down  in  the  corner  and 
looked  as  if  he  had  nothing  left  to  live  for. 

"I  beg  yore  pardon,  sah,  for  dis  little  inter- 
ruption/' said  the  old  darky,  "but  I  allus  do 
things  when  I  think  of  them,  and  I'se  done  told 
dat  boy  more'n  a  hundred  times  never  to  try  to 
shave  a  gemmen." 

I  was  very  sorry  for  Erastus  and  deeply  re- 
gretted that  I  had  unwittingly  caused  him  to  be 
thus  punished,  but  it  was  certainly  an  object  les- 
son, for  if  there  were  more  such  disciplinarians 
as  the  old  man,  the  suffering  public  who  are 
obliged  to  patronize  barber  shops  would  fare  a 
great  deal  better. 


How  A  SMALL  BOY  FOOLED  His  FATHER  AND 
TRIED  TO  WORK  Us. 

A  man  came  up  to  the  door  of  the  theatre  one 
night  leading  a  small  tow-headed  youngster,  who 
was  crying  most  bitterly. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  father,  "my  boy  is  en- 
titled to  see  this  show." 

"On  what  ground?"  asked  the  manager. 


134      J°hn  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

"Well,  he  has  done  some  work  for  you  show 
people  and  has  a  right  to  go  in." 

Failing  to  recognize  in  this  little  imp  any  old 
employe  of  the  company  and  wondering  what 
odd  job  he  could  have  done  for  them,  the  man- 
ager began  questioning  the  boy,  being  eager  to 
make  amends  for  any  past  delinquency.  After 
many  vain  endeavors,  he  at  last  learned  the  boy's 
reason  for  demanding  free  admission  into  the 
show. 

"One  of  the  actors,"  he  sobbed,  "met  me  on 
the  street  and  asked  me  where  the  post-office  was 
and  I  showed  him  the  place,  boo-hoo — hoo " 

His  weeping  was  cut  short  by  the  astonished 
father,  who  seized  him  by  the  arm  and  started 
him  homeward,  leaving  the  manager  to  wonder 
if  the  boy  would  not  pretty  soon  be  seeing  "stars" 
of  another  description. 

WANTED — INFORMATION. 

What  actor  on  arriving  in  a  strange  town,  es- 
pecially after  dark,  and  starting  from  the  hotel 
with  a  very  vague  direction  given  by  the  clerk 
as  to  the  location  of  the  Opera  House,  and  who, 
being  unable  to  find  it  has  not  asked  some  citi- 
zen to  direct  him? 

Tim  Frawley  was  hurrying  from  a  hotel  to 
the  theatre  one  evening  and  having  lost  his  way, 
stopped  a  man  and  politely  asked  him : 

"Will  you  please  tell  me,  sir,  where  the  opera 
house  is?" 

The  man  looked  Mr.  Frawley  over  very  scru- 
tinizingly,  then  drawled  out: 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      135 

"Syke's  Opera  House?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  the  manager,  in  a  rather 
hurried  tone. 

"Well,  now,  let  me  see,"  said  the  native  still 
looking  at  Mr.  Frawley  and  scratching  his  head, 
"now  who  did  Syksie  marry?" 

It  is  needless  to  say  Mr.  Frawley  did  not  im- 
part that  information,  nor  did  he  wait  to  get  his 
own. 


THE  ABSENT-MINDED  ENGLISHMAN. 

Many  years  ago  when  the  late  Sol  Smith  Rus- 
sell first  visited  Winnipeg,  Manitoba,  he  was  met 
at  the  depot  by  the  local  manager,  a  very  cour- 
teous and  most  pronounced  Englishman,  and,  to- 
gether with  Mr.  Warmington,  Mr.  Russell's  man- 
ager, they  started  to  walk  to  the  hotel ;  they  were 
greatly  retarded  though  in  reaching  there,  for 
the  local  manager  wished  to  stop  and  introduce 
every  friend  he  met  to  Mr.  Russell.  Now,  this 
manager,  whose  name  I  believe  was  Rutliclge, 
was  not  only  a  very  absent-minded  man,  but  his 
memory  for  names  seemed  to  leave  him  on  all 
occasions.  His  introductions  were  about  as  fol- 
lows: 

"Allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  the  celebrated 
actor  who  is  going  to  play  at  my  theatre  to- 
night, Mr. — eh — ,  my  dear  fellow,  I  beg  your 
pardon.  This  is  Mr.,  Mr. I  beg  your  par- 
don, old  chap,  I  can't  remember  names." 

Then  Sol  would  say  in  his  blandest  manner: 

"Russell,  Sol  Smith  Russell." 


136      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

"Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Russell,  Mr.  Russell."  Then 
the  friend  and  Mr.  Russell  would  shake  hands, 
chat  a  few  moments,  and  go  their  way.  Rut- 
lidge  met  about  twenty  of  his  acquaintances  and 
each  time  went  through  with  this  same  perform- 
ance. Just  before  they  reached  the  hotel  they 
met  the  mayor  of  the  city.  Thinking  that  he 
must  make  an  heroic  effort  this  time  and  get  the 
name  right  without  assistance,  Rutlidge  began : 

"Mr.  Mayor,  this  is  Mr.,  Mr.,  eh,  the  cele- 
brated actor  who  is  going  to  play  at  my  theatre 
to-night."  A  gleam  of  great  satisfaction  spread 
over  his  countenance  as  he  blurted  out,  "Mr.  Sol 
Smithell!" 


A  LIVELY  REMINDER. 

In  the  play  of  "Confusion,"  the  principal  props 
are  a  baby  and  a  pug  dog.  We  always  borrowed 
the  baby  but  we  carried  the  dog  with  us.  He 
was  a  beautiful,  intelligent  little  fellow,  and  a 
special  favorite  with  all  the  company.  I  used 
to  take  him  with  me  on  my  long  walks,  and  when 
we  returned,  as  I  was  generally  thirsty,  I  would 
stop  in  for  a  glass  of  beer.  The  dog  always  got 
chummy  with  the  bartender,  and  early  acquired 
the  habit  of  jumping  up  on  the  counter  and  do- 
ing stunts  for  small  bits  of  cake — he  politely  but 
firmly  refused  all  drinks.  The  little  creature 
looked  forward  to  these  afternoon  jaunts  with 
as  much  pleasure  as  a  human  being.  On  one 
occasion  I  sorely  disappointed  him.  Not  hav- 
ing my  usual  thirst,  I  went  past  the  place  where 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      137 

I  had  been  in  the  habit  of  stopping;  as  I  turned 
to  go  into  the  hotel  I  missed  my  dog,  and  going 
back  found  him  sitting  up  in  the  doorway  of  the 
first  saloon.  When  he  saw  me  he  gave  evidence 
of  great  joy  and  relief  by  jumping  about  and 
pushing  against  the  door.  Finding  that  his  an- 
tics could  not  induce  me  to  go  in  he  quieted 
down,  but  gave  me,  as  a  parting  shot,  a  look  of 
mingled  surprise  and  disgust  as  much  as  to  say: 
"Haven't  you  forgotten  something  this  time?" 

WHY  THEY  DIDN'T  LAUGH. 

I  think  it  was  in  Hancock,  Michigan,  that  I 
played  to  the  coldest  audience — of  course,  I  mean 
in  appreciation — I  have  ever  appeared  before. 
The  play  was  a  farcical  comedy  which  usually 
provoked  roars  of  laughter,  but  on  this  occasion 
the  entire  audience  sat  as  if  they  were  at  a  fune- 
ral. It  was  so  remarkable  that  I  began  to  watch 
their  faces  intently,  and  I  thought  I  noticed  a 
queer  expression  on  several  countenances,  as  if 
they  would  like  to  laugh  but  didn't  dare  to.  I 
was  much  puzzled,  and,  after  the  performance, 
was  speaking  to  the  landlord  of  the  hotel  about 
it.  He  half-way  smiled  and  said : 

"Well,  they  never  do  laugh  much  here." 

Just  then  a  tall  man  with  a  large  fur  coat  with 
a  star  pinned  on  the  outside  of  it,  whom  I  learned 
was  the  city  marshal,  took  up  the  conversation : 

"Laugh,"  he  said,  "well,  I  guess  not,  they 
know  me,  I  am  bound  to  have  perfect  order  in 
that  ere  hall  and  if  any  one  laughs  they  know 
I'll  put  'em  out." 


138      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

It  then  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  noticed  dur- 
ing the  performance  this  very  individual  stand- 
ing at  the  back  of  the  hall  holding  in  his  hand 
a  large  cane  which  greatly  resembled  a  base- 
ball bat,  and  which  he  took  particular  pains  to 
keep  before  the  eyes  of  the  audience. 


DIDN'T  CARE  FOR  His  MONOLOGUE. 

Once  a  year  a  great  benefit  in  which  actors 
both  high  and  low  liberally  contribute  their  serv- 
ices is  given  in  New  York,  for  the  Actor's  fund. 
At  no  other  time  can  such  a  variety  of  the  pro- 
fession be  seen  together. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  Joseph  Jefferson 
was  making  an  address  of  welcome  to  the  au- 
dience, and  every  entrance  to  the  stage  was 
packed  with  people  desiring  to  hear  what  the 
dean  of  our  profession  had  to  say.  Standing  on 
tiptoe  and  trying  to  look  over  the  shoulders  of 
those  in  front  of  her  was  a  girl  in  short  clothes, 
a  member  of  a  vaudeville  sketch  team.  The 
other  half  of  the  sketch  was  pushing  her  way  to 
the  side  of  her  partner.  Finally  she  landed  near 
enough  to  ask : 

"Who's  on  now,  Mollie?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  partner,  "some 
old  guy  doing  a  monologue." 

"How's  he  going?" 

"Oh,  rotten,  he's  been  on  fifteen  minutes  and 
he  hasn't  got  a  laugh!" 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      139 


WHO  KILLED  THE  BARON. 

We  were  playing-  "A  Parisian  Romance"  in 
a  little  town  in  Montana,  and  I'll  say  right  here, 
we  were  playing  it  under  extreme  difficulties, 
both  as  to  stage,  scenery,  and  music.  The  stage 
and  scenery  were  bad  enough,  but  the  town  or- 
chestra was  a  soul-wrecking  dilemma.  When  we 
came  to  the  great  banquet  scene  in  the  fourth 
act,  where  the  Baron  dies,  the  music  was  enough 
to  drive  a  finely-trained  musical  ear  to  immediate 
and  horrible  suicide,  discords  piled  upon  dis- 
cords in  rapid  succession.  I  was  playing  the  doc- 
tor, and  my  lines  are, 

"Stop  that  music,  the  Baron  is  dead,"  but  on 
this  occasion  not  being  able  to  resist  the  oppor- 
tunity, I  shouted  with  a  vengeance, 

"Stop  that  music,  it  has  killed  the  Baron!" 


A  QUICK  ANSWER. 

One  day  while  going  through  a  tedious  re- 
hearsal of  "The  Holy  City,"  in  Los  Angeles,  we 
had  a  delightful  visit  from  our  dear  old  friend, 
Louis  James.  He  is  always  like  a  ray  of  sun- 
shine ;  his  very  presence  at  this  time  seemed  to 
put  new  life  into  us  and  make  us  forget  the  hard 
work  we  were  doing.  I  was  rehearsing  what 
was  supposed  to  be  a  Roman  comedy  part,  the 
humor  of  which  is  always  forced  and  unreal. 
Try  as  hard  as  I  might  I  could  not  make  this 


140      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

part  an  exception  to  the  rule.  I  went  over  to 
Louis  and  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  played  a  low 
comedy  Roman. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  immediately  replied,    "I    have 
played  Virgin-ins!" 


A  SCHOOL  FOR  DICTION. 

While  walking  one  day  with  the  late  Law- 
rence Hanley  along  an  East  Side  street  in  New 
York  our  attention  was  attracted  by  the  discor- 
dant sounds  that  were  emanating  from  a  man  who, 
with  a  large  cabbage  in  his  hand,  was  walking 
ahead  of  a  small  horse  and  cart.  No  living  per- 
son could  have  possibly  understood,  without  ma- 
terial assistance,  what  he  was  saying ;  it  sounded 
more  like  a  brakesman  calling  off  stations  than 
anything  else,  but  as  he  had  a  cabbage  in  his 
hand  we  surmised  that  he  was  calling  out  this 
worthy  companion  of  corn-beef.  After  watch- 
ing him  in  amused  curiosity  for  a  few  moments, 
Hanley  approached  and  said : 

"My  friend,  what  are  you  saying?" 

The  man  replied  in  the  same  unfathomable  gib- 
berish, and  being  asked  the  second  time  still  evi- 
denced a  hopeless  inability  to  extricate  himself 
from  the  double  "b's"  which  divided  the  cab- 
bage. Finally,  Larry  said : 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  are  calling  cabbages?" 

The  man  nodded. 

"Why,"  said  Larry,  "no  one  could  understand 
that.  Allow  me?"  and  taking  the  cabbage  from 
him  held  it  up  and  called  out  in  his  clear,  reso- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      141 

nant  voice,  "Cab-ba-ges !  Cab-ba-ges !  There,  my 
friend,  that's  the  way  to  say  it."  And  he  walked 
on,  leaving  the  man  transfixed. 

"I  have  a  great  idea,  John,"  said  Larry,  "and 
I  think  there's  money  in  it :  we'll  open  a  school 
of  voice  culture  and  diction  for  vegetable  and 
fruit  venders." 


PLAYING  THE  RACES. 

A  well-known  and  well-to-do  actor,  whose 
name  I  shall  not  mention,  was  given  a  strong  tip 
one  day  during  the  races  in  an  Eastern  city,  that 
a  certain  horse  was  a  sure  winner.  He  had  a 
large  amount  of  sporting  blood  in  his  veins,  but 
at  that  time  did  not  have  the  money  he  wished 
to  invest  on  the  mount.  A  bright  thought  struck 
him.  He  went  to  the  safety  deposit  box  where 
his  wife  had  some  very  valuable  diamonds,  took 
them  out,  and  raised  the  sum  necessary  to  back 
his  favorite,  expecting,  of  course,  to  win  double 
the  amount,  redeem  the  diamonds,  and  put  them 
back  without  his  wife's  being  aware  of  the  trans- 
action ;  but  as  Fate  sometimes  decrees  it,  the 
horse  lost  and  my  friend  was  out  his  money  and 
his  wife's  diamonds.  Dark  clouds  threatened 
his  domestic  atmosphere,  but  he  postponed  the 
outbreak  as  long  as  he  could;  the  secret  wore 
on  him,  however,  to  such  an  extent  that  he  grew 
nervous  and  restless,  was  irritable  during  the 
day  and  walked  the  floor  at  night.  The  wife 
wondered  what  was  the  matter,  thought  he  was 
bordering  on  nervous  prostration,  and  in  her  anx- 


142      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

iety  urged  him  to  immediately  consult  a  physi- 
cian. 

One  night  while  engaged  in  his  usual  floor- 
walking  act,  he  stopped  and  gazed  upon  his  wife 
sleeping  so  quietly.  A  quick  resolve  seized  him. 
Approaching  the  bed,  he  shook  her  violently  and 
said: 

"Wake  up,  I  have  something  to  tell  you!" 

The  poor  woman  rubbed  her  eyes  and  sat  up 
in  bed,  trembling  with  fear,  thinking  her  hus- 
band had  become  suddenly  bereft  of  his  reason. 

Then  he  exclaimed,  speaking  as  fast  as  he 
could  talk : 

"See  here,  I  can  stand  this  thing  no  longer. 
I  had  a  tip  on  the  races.  I  went  to  the  deposit 
box  and  took  your  diamonds ;  hocked  them ;  the 
horse  lost;  and  the  diamonds  are  gone.  Now  I 
am  going  to  sleep ;  you  get  up  and  walk  the  floor 
a  while!" 

NOT  MUCH  COMEDY  IN  IT. 

On  another  occasion  this  same  loving  couple 
had  a  room  in  a  hotel  adjoining  one  occupied  by 
an  elderly  maiden  lady.  This  ancient  spinster 
had  evidently  overheard  that  evening  some  lit- 
tle spat  that  must  have  been  going  on  between 
my  friend  and  his  wife,  for  the  next  morning 
at  breakfast,  the  manager  of  the  company,  who 
sat  at  the  same  table  with  her,  asked  if  she  would 
not  like  to  see  the  play,  and  offered  her  some 
seats.  But  she  promptly  refused  to  accept  them, 
adding  that  she  did  not  think  she  would  enjoy 
it. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      143 

The  manager  asked  her  why. 

"It's  too  tragic,"  she  said. 

This  rather  surprised  him  as  the  piece  was 
very  far  from  being  a  tragedy. 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,"  she  replied,  "I  heard  Mr.  and  Mrs.  M. 
rehearsing  in  their  room  last  night,  and  I  would 
rather  wait  until  you  play  something  that  has 
more  comedy  in  it." 


ARE  WE  So  SOON  FORGOTTEN  WHEN  WE  ARE 
GONE? 

Almost  any  actor  who  has  visited  Chicago  will 
remember  the  old  "Dizzy,"  on  Dearborn  street. 
It  is  the  popular  haunt  of  actors  and  clubmen. 
It  is  wonderfully  changed  now  from  the  early 
days  ;  the  old  proprietors  and  every  one  connected 
with  the  place  are  gone,  and  most  of  the  old  famil- 
iar faces  known  there  in  the  '7o's  and  '8o's  have 
also  passed  away.  A  friend  of  mine,  who  was 
born  and  raised  in  Chicago,  spent  his  early  days 
in  McVickers'  Theatre,  and  was  almost  as  well 
known  to  everybody  in  that  city  as  the  mayor, 
told  me  that  he  walked  into  "Dizzy's"  a  short 
time  ago.  Seated  around  the  tables  were  num- 
bers of  actors,  as  in  days  of  yore,  but  they  were 
strangers  to  him.  An  old  bartender  who  hap- 
pened to  know  him  called  him  by  name.  After 
talking  a  few  moments  writh  the  old  fellow  my 
friend  walked  around  behind  the  large  oval  glass 
to  light  his  cigar,  when  he  heard  one  of  the  men 
at  the  table  sav  to  the  bartender: 


144      J°hn  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

"Who's  that  man  you  were  talking  to?" 

"Why,  don't  you  know  him?"  said  the  bar- 
tender, "that's  Jim  Devlin." 

"Devlin,  Devlin,"  replied  the  young  gentle- 
man, "never  heard  of  him;  he  must  be  a  new 
one." 

Jimmy  looking  himself  over  in  the  large  glass 
murmured  these  well-known  lines  from  Rip  Van 
Winkle  : 

"Are  we  so  soon  forgotten  when  we  are 
gone  ?" 

A  VISIT  TO  HONOLULU. 

Among  the  treasured  remembrances  of  my 
long  career  is  my  first  visit  with  the  Neill  Com- 
pany to  Honolulu.  What  a  joyful  relief  it  was 
to  be  free  from  the  glare  of  the  footlights  and  the 
busy  scenes  of  the  theatre  to  enjoy  the  quiet, 
peaceful  life  on  ship  where  for  six  days  on 
the  good  old  Alameda,  treated  with  the  utmost 
courtesy  and  kindness  by  Captain  Harriman  and 
everybody  on  the  boat,  our  voyage  was  made 
one  continual  source  of  pleasure  to  us  all.  I 
will  not  attempt  to  describe  Honolulu,  that  has 
been  done  so  often  both  in  prose  and  poetry  by 
brighter  minds  than  mine;  but  will  merely  re- 
late a  few  of  the  instances  that  occurred  to  us 
during  our  engagement  on  that  beautiful  island. 

I  carried  with  me  a  letter  from  my  uncle  in 
San  Francisco  to  Judge  Newman,  who  was, 
with  my  uncle,  one  of  the  early  California  pio- 
neers. A  great  friendship  existed  between  them, 
so  you  can  readily  understand  how  I  was  wel- 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      145 

corned  and  treated  in  this  most  hospitable  land. 
The  judge  was  the  attorney-general  under  the 
great  Hawaiian  king,  Kalakana ;  and  one  of  his 
official  duties  it  seemed  was  to  entertain  every 
afternoon  at  his  home  with  a  little  game  of  poker, 
the  king  and  his  court.  Kalakana  was  particu- 
larly fond  of  the  American  game  and  played  it 
in  a  remarkable  manner,  and  as  only  a  king 
could.  When  they  sat  around  the  judge's  oaken 
table,  which  table  is  still  retained  at  his  home 
bearing  upon  it  all  the  marks  which  they  used  in 
keeping  the  game,  good  humor  reigned  supreme. 
No  matter  what  any  one  else  had,  the  king  al- 
ways held  a  better  hand,  for  if  his  opponent  had 
four  kings,  King  Kalakana  would  quietly  take 
up  the  deck  and  help  himself  to  four  aces,  if 
they  happened  to  be  in  the  pack,  and  as  his  op- 
ponents were  too  reverential  to  dispute  with  his 
majesty  or  to  correct  him,  the  king  always  won, 
but  as  there  was  rarely  ever  any  money  in  sight 
no  serious  losses  were  incurred. 

I  was  invited  to  a  dinner  party  at  the  judge's 
one  evening ;  there  were  present  six  or  seven  gen- 
tlemen, including  the  federal  judge  and  the  king's 
counsel,  prominent  lawyers  and  travellers,  men 
who  had  been  everywhere  and  seen  everything; 
and  the  wit  and  repartee  that  passed  across  the 
king's  old  table  amid  the  clinking  of  the  glass 
and  the  smoke  of  the  cigars,  I  doubt  has  ever 
been  surpassed. 

The  judge  passed  away  before  my  second  visit 
to  the  island,  but  my  recollections  of  that  even- 
ing will  always  be  one  of  the  brightest  spots  in 
my  memory. 


146      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 


PROFESSOR  BERGER  AND  THE  CUES. 

A  noted  character  in  Honolulu  is  Professor 
Berger,  the  leader  of  the  native  Hawaiian  band. 
He  is  a  German  and  was  brought  over  to  this 
country  by  the  late  king  as  his  band  master.  For 
over  thirty  years  he  has  instructed  the  Hawaiians 
in  music,  until  probably  they  now  have  one  of 
the  greatest  bands  in  the  world.  They  are  paid 
by  the  government  to  give  concerts  in  the  pal- 
ace grounds  and  in  the  parks,  every  afternoon 
and  evening.  The  Hawaiians  love  music,  and 
their  band  is  their  idol. 

The  orchestra  at  the  theatre  is  furnished  by 
a  portion  of  this  band.  When  the  Frawley  Com- 
pany first  went  to  Honolulu,  Mr.  Frawley  asked 
Professor  Berger  if  he  could  play  the  cues  for 
the  different  acts ;  the  Professor  assured  him 
that  they  could,  that  they  could  play  anything. 
So  thinking  the  leader  understood  it,  without 
further  ado,  Mr.  Frawley  handed  him  the  inci- 
dental music  of  the  piece.  That  evening  when 
the  signal  was  given  to  play  the  curtain  music 
for  the  first  act,  the  orchestra  started  in  and 
played  all  the  cues  in  the  piece,  one  after  the 
other  like  a  medley  overture,  and  nothing  could 
stop  them  until  they  got  through.  When  Mr. 
Frawley  remonstrated  with  the  Professor  and 
tried  to  explain  how  it  should  be  done,  the  old 
gentleman  became  very  angry  and  withdrew  his 
band,  thus  leaving  the  bewildered  actor-manager 
without  any  music  during  his  engagement  at  the 
island. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      147 

Mr.  Neill  was  told  of  this,  so  when  he  met  the 
famous  band  leader  he  explained  to  him  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  cues  should  be  played,  and  Ber- 
ger  got  through  very  well,  especially  for  a  man 
who  had  never  before  undertaken  such  work. 

The  band  thought  a  great  deal  of  our  com- 
pany, and  when  we  were  leaving  Honolulu  came 
down  to  the  wharf  and  played  the  Hawaiian  and 
the  American  airs,  to  give  us  a  cordial  good-bye. 
As  I  was  going  up  the  gang  plank  the  Professor 
came  to  me  and,  placing  his  hand  upon  my  shoul- 
der, said : 

"Mr.  Burton,  the  boys  want  me  to  say  this 
to  you :  they  say  that  every  time  you  come  on  the 
stage  they  all  feel  better." 

I  consider  this  the  happiest  compliment  I  have 
ever  received. 


A  MODEST  REQUEST. 

Miss  Andrews,  the  character  lady  of  our  com- 
pany, had  among  her  numerous  admirers 
a  lady  and  her  daughter,  a  girl  about  fourteen 
years  old,  who  boarded  at  the  same  house  that 
she  did.  They  went  to  the  theatre  frequently, 
and  were  always  profuse  in  their  praises  of  the 
actress's  work. 

One  night  the  daughter  being  ill  was  pre- 
vented from  attending  the  performance ;  the 
mother,  on  her  return,  was  telling  her  of  the 
play,  and  how  immensely  funny  Miss  Andrews 
had  been.  It  seems  in  her  part  she  had  intro- 
duced a  little  squeaky  cry  which  was  very 


148      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

catchy,  and  which  sent  the  audience  into  con- 
vulsions every  time  she  did  it.  The  mother  was 
regretting  the  fact  that  the  child  had  been  un- 
able to  hear  Miss  A.  cry;  in  fact,  she  told  her 
about  it  so  much  that  the  child  herself  cried  all 
night  over  her  lost  pleasure.  In  the  morning 
as  Miss  Andrews  was  going  out  in  a  great  hurry 
to  rehearsal,  she  was  stopped  in  the  hall  by  the 
mother,  who  said  to  her  in  the  most  beseeching 
tones : 

"Oh,  Miss  Andrews,  my  daughter  feels  so  bad 
over  not  hearing  you  last  night.  Won't  you 
please  come  in  before  you  go  and  cry  for 
Bessie?" 

MOSQUITO  PROOF. 

I  have  seen  Shakespeare  played  under  various 
conditions,  but  I  once  witnessed  an  al  fresco 
performance  of  "As  You  Like  It,"  which  for 
ludicrousness  was  the  capstone  of  them  all.  It 
was  a  novel  scene  and  picturesque  in  the  ex- 
treme ;  the  grounds  and  lights  were  like  fairy- 
land ;  there  were  no  drops,  no  painted  scenery, 
no  footlights,  no  curtains,  no  wings,  no  flies ;  but 
the  noble  mosquito  was  there,  and  he  got  in  his 
good  work  on  all  occasions  and  on  everybody. 
The  most  beautiful  passages  of  Rosalind  and 
Orlando  were  punctured  by  the  frantic  en- 
deavors of  the  performers  to  rid  themselves  of 
the  pests  that  were  boring  holes  through  their 
tights.  Orlando  in  the  midst  of  his  most  im- 
passioned scenes  would  suddenly  stop,  slap  him- 
self on  first  one  leg  then  the  other,  while  poor 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      149 

Rosalind  being  a  little  more  modest  could  only 
stamp  her  foot  and  grit  her  teeth  in  agony. 

The  only  one  who  escaped  was  my  friend  Allan 
Dunn,  who  was  so  thin  that  he  wore  two  sets 
of  pads,  which  completely  repulsed  the  bravest 
attacks  of  the  mosquito  regiment. 

AN  ACCIDENTAL  HIT. 

One  of  the  notable  occasions  of  our  engage- 
ment was  a  benefit  we  tendered  the  Myrtle  Boat 
Club.  All  the  Hawaiian  society  was  there.  The 
theatre  was  draped  with  the  Myrtle  colors ;  the 
ladies  in  the  audience  wore  the  colors,  and  our 
ladies  did  the  same. 

When  I  came  upon  the  stage  clad  in  my  dress- 
ing gown  I  received  a  perfect  ovation.  I  had 
always  been  well  received,  but  I  could  not  ac- 
count for  this  unusual  applause  until  it  suddenly 
dawned  upon  me  that  the  trimmings  and  but- 
tons on  my  gown  were  also  the  Myrtle  colors. 
After  the  performance  a  reception  was  given  at 
the  club ;  I  did  not  happen  to  be  there,  but  the 
members  said  to  the  other  boys : 

"It  wras  very  thoughtful  of  the  ladies  to  wear 
our  colors,  but  for  Mr.  Burton  to  have  a  dressing 
gown  made  for  the  occasion  was  certainly  show- 
ing an  interest  which  we  most  highly  appreciate." 
The  boys  had  a  good  laugh  but  kept  the  secret ; 
for  the  truth  is,  I  took  that  dressing  gown  out 
from  the  bottom  of  my  trunk  where  it  had  lain, 
out  of  service,  for  fully  ten  years.  The  trim- 
mings and  buttons  happened  to  be  the  Myrtle 
colors. 


150      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 


REFUSED  TO  MAKE  THE  TRIP. 

While  in  Honolulu  our  repertoire  was  varied 
and  extensive;  we  were  required  to  play  a  new 
piece  at  each  performance,  and  to  give  three  per- 
formances a  week.  In  putting  on  "Under  Two 
Flags"  our  manager  encountered  some  little  diffi- 
culty in  procuring  a  horse  for  Cigarette  to  ride 
across  the  Algerian  desert  and  carry  the  pardon 
for  her  lover,  Berty  Cecil,  the  only  available  one 
being  a  little  polo  pony.  He  was  used  to  buck- 
ing and  kicking,  so  we  thought  he  would  make  a 
very  good  actor.  He  rehearsed  finely,  but  when 
night  came,  with  the  glare  of  the  lights  and  the 
noise  of  the  sandstorm,  instead  of  starting  at  a 
break-neck  speed  across  the  desert  he  retreated 
the  other  way,  and  kept  on  retreating  until  he 
backed  into  the  wind  machine  which  was  pro- 
ducing the  sandstorm ;  after  succeeding  in  dis- 
placing Mrs.  Neill  and  knocking  over  the  base 
drum  which  furnished  the  thunder,  he  ended  the 
catastrophe  by  falling  downstairs — and  it  never 
hurt  him  a  bit.  After  much  difficulty  he  was 
rescued,  which  was  a  great  deal  more  than  Berty 
Cecil  would  have  been  if  he  had  been  compelled 
to  wait  for  that  pony  to  carry  Cigarette  with  his 
pardon. 

SOCIAL  FUNCTIONS  IN  HONOLULU. 

We  received  so  many  kindly  invitations  to 
attend  social  receptions  and  amusements  of  r.ll 
kinds,  such  as  luaus,  the  Feasts  of  Poi,  taking 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      151 

trips  to  the  Pali,  Punch  Bowl,  and  other  places 
of  interest,  not  forgetting  the  delightful  moon- 
light excursions  to  Waikiki  Beach,  that  I  found 
it  very  difficult  to  get  any  rest.  So  one  day  I 
posted  a  notice  on  the  call  board,  the  effect  of 
which  is  best  described  by  the  following  article 
from  the  pen  of  one  of  Honolulu's  most  gifted 
writers : 

JOHN  BURTON  ENTERTAINS  IN  HONOLULU. 

"When  John  W.  Burton,  of  James  Neill's  sup- 
porting company  that  is  now  playing  an  engage- 
ment at  the  Opera  House,  first  came  to  Hono- 
lulu something  over  a  year  ago,  he  was  just  as 
delightful  a  comedian  and  interpreter  of  old  men 
roles  upon  the  stage  as  he  is  now,  which  means 
one  of  the  best  that  the  theatrical  storehouse  of 
the  States  affords.  But  he  wasn't  so  much  in 
a  Hawaiian  way.  He  hardly  knew  the  differ- 
ence between  an  alii  and  luau,  he  didn't  know 
the  difference  between  Kapiolani  and  Uhowaina, 
nor  the  Tantalus  from  Tramcars.  In  fact,  he 
had  hardly  heard  of  the  great  Kamehameha,  and 
when  he  asked  a  native  one  day  in  which  direc- 
tion the  Hawaiian  Hotel  was,  and  the  native  re- 
plied 'Mauka,'  he  was  in  doubt  for  some  days 
but  v/hat  his  reputation  had  been  assailed.  At 
first  he  did  not  like  Honolulu.  There  were  too 
many  mosquitoes  here ;  the  beautiful  Hawaiian 
music  was  most  delightful  to  his  ear,  but  it 
annoyed  him,  for  twist  his  tongue  in  every  con- 
ceivable fashion  known  to  anatomists,  he  could 
not  pronounce  the  Hawaiian  words  to  the  songs. 


152      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

He  didn't  even  care  so  very  much  for  the  poi 
or  the  squid,  and  the  sounds  from  luaus  kept 
him  awake  nights,  for  Mr.  Burton  is  a  gentle- 
man of  very  regular  habits  and  goes  to  bed  early. 
He  believes  in  the  old  proverb,  'Early  to  bed  and 
early  to  rise/  etc.  Since  Mr.  Neill  and  the 
members  of  his  company  have  been  stopping  at 
the  Hawaiian  Hotel,  several  of  the  members  have 
joined  in  the  whirl  of  gaiety,  dancing,  luaus  and 
serenading  nearly  every  evening,  upon  which 
Mr.  Burton  has  looked  with  deepening  frown, 
but  in  time  he  could  resist  the  charms  no  longer, 
and  can  now  speak  Kanaka  as  fluently  as  the 
most  accomplished  native  linguist  on  the  is- 
lands. He  has  gotten  Kamehameha's  glorious 
record  down  as  fine  as  he  has  George  Washing- 
ton's. In  fact,  he  frequently  stands  and  looks 
at  the  statue  near  the  public  building  in  adora- 
tion. He  knows  the  words  and  music  of  Tomi ! 
Tomi !  Lei  Poni  Moi,  and  Wilwili  Monoa.  He 
just  dotes  on  Kolohala,  poi  and  Hululu-Waena. 
That  his  conversion  is  complete  is  shown  from 
the  following  invitation  that  was  sent  out  yes- 
terday : 

"  'Wishing  to  make  a  suitable  return  for  the 
many  peaceful  nights  I  have  spent  in  Honolulu, 
I  will  give  a  luau  and  musicale  at  my  cottage, 
G — I — Tanai  Hawaiian  Hotel,  at  4  a.  in.,  Tues- 
day, December  23d.  All  are  invited.  A 
Chinese  orchestra  will  be  in  attendance. 
"  'Everybody's  friend, 

"  'JOHN  W.  BURTON. 

"  T.  S. — You  had  better  come,  for  you  will  all 
know    what   is    going   on.     Those    who    cannot 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.       153 

bring  squib  are  requested  to  bring  squab  and  tin 
horns,  as  the  papa  kuhikuhi  will  be  particularly 
unique  and  entrancing.'  " — Honolulu  Exchange. 


BOB  SCOTT. 

The  night  clerk  at  the  Royal  Hawaiian  Hotel 
puzzled  me  greatly.  I  was  sure  I  knew  him,  and 
yet  I  could  not  exactly  place  him.  One  day 
while  sitting  on  the  lanai  I  overheard  the  boys 
talking  about  Scott,  and  I  asked  who  he  was, 
they  said : 

"Why,  he  used  to  be  an  actor." 

It  all  flashed  across  my  mind  in  a  minute ;  he 
was  Bob  Scott  of  the  old  firm  of  Scott  and 
Boyd  who  played  with  me  twenty-five  years  ago 
in  Nashville,  Tennessee.  He  still  wore  the 
beard  that  made  him  famous  in  the  part  of  the 
soldier  which  he  played  so  many  years.  I  made 
myself  known  to  him  that  evening  after  the 
theatre,  and  we  sat  and  talked  till  early  morn, 
reviewing  old  times.  We  recalled  that  hurried 
trip  from  Nashville  to  escape  the  cholera,  how  we 
came  up  the  river  to  St.  Louis  in  that  eventful 
year  of  the  early  '7°'s>  and  then  we  related  in- 
stances that  had  happened  to  us  during  our 
separation.  It  was  a  delightful  "Experience 
meeting."  I  went  into  my  trunk  and  found  an 
old  programme  in  which  I  was  the  head-liner  in 
Irish  comedies,  and  Scott  and  Boyd,  the  end  men 
in  the  minstrel  scene. 

Bob  is  located  over  in  Honolulu  now.  has  a 
fine  position  and  feels  no  desire  to  tread  the  mimic 


154      J°hn  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

boards  again.  May  his  heart  never  grow  older 
nor  his  beard  whiter!  Apropos  of  his  beard. 

At  one  time  they  were  sending  out  a  Number 
Two  company,  and  the  man  who  was  to  play  the 
part  that  Bob  played  in  the  original  company,  not 
knowing  that  Bob's  beard  was  natural,  brought 
a  wig  maker  into  his  dressing  room  to  look  at 
the  beard  so  he  could  make  one  like  it.  Mr. 
Scott,  always  ready  for  a  joke,  kept  up  the 
allusion  that  his  chin  hair  was  only  stuck  on. 
The  young  man  who  was  to  play  the  part  said 
to  the  wig  maker : 

"Do  you  think,  sir,  you  can  duplicate  that 
beard?" 

"Oh,  certainly,"  he  replied,  and  after  examin- 
ing it  carefully,  inquired  of  Bob : 

"Who  made  that  beard,  Mr.  Scott?" 

Bob  looked  at  him  with  a  merry  twinkle  in 
his  eye,  and  quietly  replied: 

"God!" 


THE   FIRST   FOURTH   OF  JULY   IN   HONOLULU. 

We  were  the  first  company  to  play  in  Hono- 
lulu after  it  was  annexed  to  the  United  States, 
and  were  there  the  first  Fourth  of  July  that  was 
celebrated  on  the  island. 

How  splendid  the  American  soldiers  looked 
that  day,  and  how  welcome  the  sight  of  the  blue 
coats  seemed  to  our  eyes.  Honolulu  did  herself 
proud;  there  were  fine  speeches  and  a  grand 
parade.  I  shall  never  forget  that  procession : 
it  was  indeed  a  pageant — a  moving  picture.  We 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

noticed,  marching  one  after  the  other,  American, 
English,  French,  Kanaka,  Japanese,  Chinese, 
Portuguese  ,and  the  Lord  knows  what — all  joy- 
ously keeping  step  to  the  American  music,  and 
over  them  waved  the  American  flag.  It  made 
our  hearts  leap  to  see  the  dear  old  banner  in 
what  was  to  us  a  foreign  country  three  thousand 
miles  from  home. 


OUR  HOMEWARD  VOYAGE. 

The  most  eventful  part  of  our  Honolulu  trip 
was  our  leave-taking  and  return  home.  What  a 
company  we  had  to  travel  with.  There  were 
Admiral  Bob  Evans  (Fighting  Bob),  Admiral 
Glass,  Captain  J.  T.  Myers,  U.  S.  N.,  Hero  of 
Pekin,  and  several  other  well-known  naval 
officers.  Colonel  Samuel  Parker ;  and  Prince 
Cupid,  David  Kawananakoa,  heir  to  the  Hawai- 
ian throne. 

The  battleship  Wisconsin  was  in  the  harbor, 
and  as  we  passed  it  so  close  we  could  almost 
shake  hands  with  those  on  board,  their  officers 
and  men  were  drawn  up  in  line  to  salute  our  dis- 
tinguished guests  on  the  Alameda.  Interwoven 
with  the  Wisconsin  band's  ''Home,  Sweet 
Home,"  could  be  heard  the  far-away  notes  of 
Berger's  Hawaiian  band  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne." 
It  was  indeed  a  delightful  experience,  impressive 
and  beautiful. 

Everybody  on  board  was  covered  with  the 
picturesque  leis,  which  our  friends  had  literally 
showered  upon  us;  and  as  we  could  not  carry 


156      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

these  flowers  to  sea,  we  threw  them  back  into 
the  water,  and  the  little  diving  boys  recovered 
and  carried  them  back  to  the  crowd  on  the  wharf 
who  covet  them  as  souvenirs. 

Our  trip  homeward  was  even  more  enjoyable 
than  the  one  over.  What  splendid  fellows  those 
naval  officers  are,  charming  story-tellers  and  the 
j oiliest  people  you  can  meet.  I  want  to  tell  one 
story  that  was  told  of  Admiral  Evans.  It  seems 
he  went  to  a  very  fashionable  church  in  New 
York  one  Sunday,  and  was  ushered  into  one  of 
the  front  pews.  After  sitting  there  a  little  while 
a  gentleman  came  in  and  sat  down  at  the  other 
end  of  the  pew.  He  was  a  typical  New  York 
banker,  cold  and  austere  in  manner,  with  a  look 
that  would  freeze  you  to  death.  This  look  he 
several  times  directed  toward  Admiral  Evans, 
whom  he  did  not  know  from  Adam.  Seeing  that 
the  Admiral  paid  no  attention  to  his  angry 
glances,  he  took  out  a  card,  wrote  upon  it,  and 
handed  it  to  Mr.  Evans,  which  read  as  follows: 

"I  pay  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  a  year  for 
this  pew."  "Fighting  Bob"  read  it  with  a  curi- 
ous smile,  turned  it  over,  and  wrote  upon  the 
other  side,  then  handed  it  back  to  the  gentleman 
You  can  imagine  the  effect  upon  this  iceberg's 
face  when  he  read  the  simple  words: 

"You  pay  too  d n  much!" 


r^NLs    a    Georgian.      He   told   a 
Georgia/story  whicn^E  think  will  bear  repeating. 
Two^Georgia  cracl  ers  were  sitting  on  a  rail 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      157 

fence  chewing  tobacco  and  talking-  politics  in  the 
slow,  drawling  style  peculiar  to  that  class  of  peo- 
ple. One  of  them  was  a  great  admirer  of  Hoke 
Smith,  formerly  Secretary  of  the  Interior. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  said,  "Hoke  Smith  is  a  great 
man,  the  greatest  man  that  ever  lived." 

"Naw,"  said  the  other,  "you  don't  mean  to 
say  that  he  is  a  greater  man  than  Robert  E. 
Lee  was?" 

"Yas,  sir,"  said  the  other  one,  "he's  a  greater 
man  than  Robert  E.  Lee  was."  Long  silence. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  he's  a  greater  man 
than  Grover  Cleveland?" 

"Yas,  sir;  Hoke  Smith's  a  greater  man  than 
Grover  Cleveland."  Another  silence,  and  all  the 
time  spitting  tobacco  juice. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  he's  a  greater  man 
than  Jefferson  Davis  was?" 

"Yas,  sir ;  Hoke  Smith's  a  greater  man  than 
Jefferson  Davis  was." 

And  so  they  sparred,  one  of  them  naming  all 
the  great  men  he  could  think  of,  and  the  other 
coming  back  with  "Hoke  Smith's  a  greater  man 
than  any  of  them." 

Finally,  after  a  very  long  pause,  the  ques- 
tioner resumed : 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  Hoke  Smith's  a 
greater  man  than  God?" 

He  thought  this  would  be  a  poser,  but  the 
other  one  came  back  at  him  with  a  quiet,  know- 
ing smile  on  his  face : 

"Well,  Hoke  Smith's  a  youn^  man  yet!" 


158      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

We  had  a  mock  marriage  on  ship  in  which  a 
prominent  young  sugar  planter  and  a  noted  San 
Francisco  belle  were  united,  and  I  have  since 
learned  that  what  we  did  in  fun  afterwards  be- 
came a  reality. 

We  also  had  a  mock  trial  in  which  Jim  Neill 
was  sued  for  breach  of  promise.  The  trial  was 
in  the  Hawaiian  language,  before  Judge  Parker; 
and  little  Willie  Jarrett  was  the  interpreter, 
Willie  does  not  understand  the  Hawaiin  lan- 
guage at  all,  which,  of  course,  made  him  very 
useful  as  an  interpreter.  Jim  was  convicted  and 
fined  two  dollars  and  a  half,  which  Mrs.  Neill 
kindly  paid.  And  so  time  was  spent  until  one 
glorious  morning  we  spied  the  shores  of  Cali- 
fornia, and  in  a  short  time  were  passing  through 
the  Golden  Gate,  where  another  great  welcome 
awaited  our  distinguished  companions  en  voyage. 


WHERE  THE  TROUBLE  LAY. 

Although  I  am  not  inclined  by  nature  to  be 
pessimistic,  whenever  our  manager  announces 
that  we  are  booked  for  an  ocean  voyage,  I  imme- 
diately become  "down  in  the  mouth"  and  lose 
interest  in  life,  for,  unfortunately,  I  am  the  poor- 
est sailor  in  the  world. 

On  that  "Homeward    Voyage,"  the    part    of 
which  was  so  pleasant,  I  spent  three  very  un- 
pleasant  days — SICK  was  no  name  for  it;  pos- 
sibly the  following  lines  will  better  express  it: 
ii  o'clock  and  all  are  well; 
i  o'clock  all  sick  as  h — 11; 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      159 

all  except  a  Methodist  minister  who  was  on  the 
lookout  for  converts.  Learning  that  there  were 
a  number  of  actors  and  naval  officers  on  board, 
he  felt  that  the  harvest  was  truly  ripe  for  his 
labor.  Passing  my  stateroom  one  Sunday  morn- 
ing, and  seeing  my  door  open,  he  invited  him- 
self in.  I  was  just  barely  able  to  hold  up  my 
head.  Looking  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  lost  soul  in 
Hades,  he  asked,  in  great  solicitation : 

"Brother,  would  you  not  like  to  feel  a  change 
in  heart?" 

"No,  parson,"  I  answered  peevishly,  "my 
heart's  all  right,  but  I  would  like  to  change  this 
stomach !" 


MAMMY'S  DILEMMA. 

While  Joe,  my  errand  boy,  was  washing  a  wig 
for  me  the  other  day,  an  old  negro  mammy,  who 
was  helping  about  the  place,  kept  watching  him 
very  intently,  with  a  puzzled  look  on  her  face. 
Finally  her  question  box  turned  over: 

"What  is  dat  thing?" 

"It's  a  wig,  Aunty." 

"Why,  you  don't  wear  wigs,  chile!" 

"No."     Still  washing  away. 

"Oh,  you-all  are  going  to  a  masquerade." 

"Wrong  again,"  the  young  gentleman  replied. 

"Well,  what  in  de  name  of  Heaven  is  it  for?" 

"Why,"  said  Joe,  "it  belongs  to  Mr.  Burton  ; 
he's  an  actor." 

"An     actor,"     she     exclaimed,    dropping    the 


160      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

broom  and  dustpan,  and  the  puzzled  look  on  her 
face  changed  to  one  of  complete  satisfaction, 
"well,  I  allus  thought  he  warn't  a  natural  man!" 

THE  GALLERY  BOY. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  trace  the  origin  of  the 
Gallery  Boy,  for  he  has  always  seemed  to  be 
a  part  and  parcel  of  the  theatre ;  in  England  he 
frequents  the  pit,  but  in  this  country,  it  is  the 
gallery.  There  is  not  an  American  manager  or 
actor  who  does  not  strive  to  please  this  little  mite 
of  their  patrons,  for  he  is  always  a  cash  customer 
— no  passes  in  the  gallery. 

He  is  a  critic,  too,  Nature's  critic,  never  preju- 
diced, but  likes  or  dislikes  as  his  instincts  teach 
him ;  always  a  loyal  friend  to  his  favorite  actor ; 
and  the  opinion  of  these  boys  as  they  leave  the 
theatre  is  as  valuable  as  the  finest  critic's  in  the 
land ;  their  blunt  and  quaint  expressions,  so  hon- 
estly spoken,  in  regard  to  the  play  leave  no  room 
to  doubt  their  sincerity. 

The  blase  after-dinner  box-party  who  chatter 
through  the  performance,  and  who  speak  of  the 
artists,  and  the  literary  merits  of  the  play,  and 
discuss  every  gown  that  the  ladies  wear,  can 
tell  you  less  about  the  play  and  its  true  merits 
than  the  little  fellow  who  stands  at  the  stage 
door,  watching  the  actors  come  out,  who  calls 
them  all  by  their  first  names,  and  says,  "Hello, 
Bill,  you  was  fine !"  "Hello,  John,  you  are  good 
this  week,  but  you  was  rotten  last!" 

There  are  the  two  critics :  Society  and  the 
Slums. 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      161 

Back  in  the  palmy  days  of  the  old  Bowery 
Theatre  in  New  York,  there  was  an  actor  named 
Kirby,  a  splendid  actor  in  his  day.  He  played 
what  is  technically  known  as  heavies,  but  the 
general  public  would  call  him  the  villain,  and  he 
was  a  villain ;  always  wore  a  black  curly  wig, 
scowled  and  strutted,  committed  all  the  crimes 
in  the  calendar,  and  died  a  violent  death  every 
night;  but  he  was  the  god  of  the  newsboys  in 
the  Bowery ;  the  hero  wasn't  "in  it"  with  him. 
They  u?ed  to  flock  to  the  gallery  to  see  him.  In 
those  '-lays  the  performance  began  at  seven 
o'clock  and  scarcely  ended  before  one.  They 
played  three  or  four  plays ;  and  the  little  fellows, 
tired  from  their  day's  work,  would  become  so 
sleepy,  that  after  watching  the  performance  until 
their  eyes  were  ready  to  close,  they  would 
stretch  out  on  the  benches,  and  appoint  one  of 
their  number  to  remain  on  guard  and  wake  them 
up  when  Kirby  died,  a  portion  of  the  per- 
formance they  never  missed  witnessing.  From 
thence  came  the  expression  that  has  passed  into 
stage  history,  "Wake  me  up  when  Kirby  dies!" 

At  the  present  day,  I  have  never  seen  a  gal- 
lery audience  that  equalled  that  of  Forepaugh's 
Theatre,  Philadelphia,  during  the  regime  of  John 
Forepaugh,  who  always  gave  them  the  finest 
plays  and  the  best  actors  that  money  could  pro- 
cure. They  fairly  worshipped  George  Learock. 
Such  a  hero  was  he  in  their  minds  that  many  a 
time  when  the  villain  was  about  to  strike  or 
shoot  him,  or  inflict  some  other  personal  injury 
upon  him,  I  have  heard  them  yell  from  the  gal- 
lery in  a  perfect  chorus,  "Hold  on,  don't  you 


162      John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns. 

hurt  George!"  They  used  to  line  up  so  deep  at 
the  stage  door  that  poor  Learock  had  to  climb 
over  a  stone  wall  and  pass  through  a  churchyard 
at  the  back  of  the  theatre  to  get  to  his  hotel 
after  the  performance  was  over.  The  villain 
there  was  also  a  great  man.  He  absolutely  had 
to  be  killed  at  every  performance.  No  walking 
off  the  stage  and  snapping  his  fingers  at  them  in 
a  scornful  manner ;  if  he  didn't  die  on  the  stage, 
they  had  to  be  told  in  some  way  that  he  was 
dead,  and  many  a  line  has  had  to  be  introduced 
to  please  these  little  patrons.  At  Forepaugh's 
they  always  took  curtain  calls  in  the  English 
fashion ;  each  actor  crossing  the  stage  in  front 
of  the  curtain  and  receiving  the  applause  due 
him  from  the  audience.  Of  course,  the  villain 
was  always  roundly  hissed,  which  was  certainly 
the  greatest  applause  he  could  receive.  Now, 
this  actor  was  very  versatile,  and  in  a  certain 
play,  there  being  no  heavy  part,  he  was  cast 
to  play  a  good  old  man.  The  boys  could  hardly 
place  him  during  the  act,  but  when  the  curtain 
call  came  they  recognized  his  walk  and  hissed 
him  as  roundly  as  though  he  had  been  play- 
ing the  deepest-dyed  villain. 

One  day  in  front  of  a  theatre  I  saw  two  little 
ragged  boys  gazing  intently  at  a  bill-board  upon 
which  was  a  large  poster  of  "Aristocracy."  The 
characters  were  in  dress  suits  and  evening  gowns, 
and  as  one  of  the  boys  pointed  at  it,  he  said 
to  the  other,  "Dat  play  is  no  good,  Jimmy,  they're 
agin  the  poor." 

During  the  run  of  "Mizpah,"  at  the  Burbank 
Theatre,  in  which  I  played  Mordecai, — and  any 


John  Burton's  Stage  Yarns.      163 

one  who  has  witnessed  the  play  will  recall  the 
scene  in  which  Mordecai  stabs  the  two  guards — 
I  was  passing  into  the  theatre  one  evening  when 
I  was  pointed  out  by  one  boy  to  another,  and 
heard  him  say,  "That  fat  guy  is  a  good  actor, 
he  kills  two  men !" 

These  are  only  a  few  instances  of  their  bright, 
untaught  wit.  With  my  fellow-actors  I  join  in 
saying,  God  bless  the  Gallery  Boy.  May  his 
power  never  grow  less. 


FINIS. 

As  I  lay  the  finished  book  reluctantly  aside,  a 
feeling  of  tenderness  creeps  over  me.  My  active 
work  is  nearly  done.  Living  here  in  the  foot- 
hills of  the  Sierras,  amid  the  sweet  perfume  of 
the  orange  groves,  and  looking  out  over  the  blue 
Pacific — all  so  peaceful  and  beautiful — I  have  a 
wish  that  I  may  end  my  days  in  this  land  which 
Nature  has  made  a  Heaven  on  earth.  It  was 
among  these  scenes  that  I  dreamed  and  thought 
of  these  little  incidents — and  of  the  friends  I 
speak  of.  I  trust  this  book  will  be  the  means 
of  causing  a  smile  and  a  few  bright  moments  in 
some  lives ;  if  only  a  few  are  made  happy  by 
reading  it  I  shall  be  satisfied. 

JOHN  W.  BURTON. 


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From  the  moment  this  story  opens  in  the  old 
whaling  station  of  New  Bedford,  until  the  climax 
of  climaxes  is  reached  in  the  high  seas  some- 
where off  the  coast  of  Chile,  excitement  and  in- 
terest are  in  order.  It  is  a  tale  that  allows  of 
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oblivious  to  everything  but  the  words  before 
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Imagine,  if  you  can,  the  consternation  of  the 
Chilean  commander  and  his  officers  of  the  cruiser 
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marine  castastrophe  one  of  the  former  officers 
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agreeable contingencies  with  the  Chilean  Naval 
Department.  His  adventures  are  not  less  thril- 
ling than  those  which  befall  the  ship,  and  the 
clever  chapter  arrangement  keeps  the  reader's 
interest  ever  whetted. 

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